


Types of Light

by thisishowithrash



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Flashbacks, Highschool AU, M/M, Misunderstandings, Slow Build, different POVs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-06 17:07:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 23
Words: 224,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4229940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisishowithrash/pseuds/thisishowithrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rivalry to romance AUs by <a href="http://themultifandomnerd.tumblr.com/search/rivalry+to+romance">themultifandomnerd</a> i saw their post floating around and i couldn't just pick one, sorry, I'm selfish, they were all good so i picked my favorites. This is just a cliché highschool AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blinding

Jean fucking hated his psychology class. He was actually looking forward to it when the new school year had started, but now his love for the subject was slowly leaking out of him. Not only was his teacher an inexpressive scary as fuck man, but he also had the misfortune of being in the same class as Daz, someone he no longer called a friend, who's assigned seat was right next to his and it made him feel all types of awkward.

Jean looked at the clock in front of the class for the millionth time... And remembered for the millionth time that he doesn't know how to tell time with the hands and shit.

_This is fucking bullshit, I'm fucking hungry. How long have I been here? ___

It was only the first Thursday into the school year and he was ready to pull his hair out. He was never really a school person, he only came because of his friends and because he didn't want his poor mother to go to jail due to his absences. He wasn't bold enough to quit...yet. Jean was one of those kids who were smart enough to get great scores on tests without having to study and still fail for not doing homework.

"Alright, class is almost over, so I hope you're done taking notes."

The quiet classroom tensed up at the sound of his voice. Mr. Ackerman wasn't actually a bad teacher, he made (tasteless) jokes every now and then and never gave out homework, but his face was so unwelcoming that the students were too afraid to laugh or make any big movements. Jean wondered how someone who was shorter than him could bring him so much anxiety.

He tried to ignore the sudden buzz Daz's phone was making from beside him and he _especially _tried to ignore the look of absolute terror it gave the startled boy for the fear of bursting out laughing. Being reminded of how easily Daz became scared almost made Jean miss their elementary days, where he and the gang would play pranks on him. He ignored how irritated that made him feel.__

Two minutes later and the bell rang, sounding like a chorus of angels singing to the starving boy. He quickly shoved his notebook in his book bag, stumbling on his black vans shoelaces like always, and speed walked out the room to meet Mikasa down the hall. It had become a daily routine for them.

"Yo!" Jean called out when she was in sight.

"Hurry up."

"Don't have to tell me twice."

They quickly made their way through the crowded halls. Jean cussed and shoved his way around the smelly people, but one look from Mikasa is what really got the crowd moving. Nobody messed with the wrestling champ. Thanks to her, they made it to the cafeteria in three minutes flat when it would usually take Jean seven when she was absent. He internally thanked the gods and planets that they were friends.

They could hear their friends before they saw them.

"How the _fuck _do you not like Adventure Time?" Connie asked in bewilderment.__

"It's for children. You know what's a good show? Snapped." Annie retorted.

Jean took his seat next to Connie once they reached the table, nudging his ribs with his elbow.

"Foooood, Con!"

"But they've got lesbians on AT! You relate to them that way."

Without looking at Jean he pulled out a couple bags from a big plastic one, sliding one to him and Mikasa. It was like this everyday; Sasha cooked everyone lunch and gave half of it to Connie during their shared first period (since half the group was separated between lunches) and Connie would distribute the goods once you reached the table. She had been so appalled by the cafeteria food that it motivated her each and every day to cook for her friends.

"Lesbians or not, I don't watch cartoons. I like watching real people, particularly murder stories... But if you find a show with a strong, masculine girl, let me know."

Jean heard Mikasa rip open her lunch bag with too much aggression and rolled his eyes. Whenever each one of them made any sort of comment, the other would react negatively. He didn't understand why they struggled to get along, but decided long ago it was best to keep out of their affairs for the fear of being brutally beaten up.

"I'd be surprised if any of you had good taste in anything," Mikasa started, "Connie watches cartoon network, Sasha watches Nickelodeon, Annie you're just into weird shit in general, Eren likes to pretend he doesn't watch Disney shows, Armin watches nothing but jeopardy and wheel of fortune, Jean you watch too much anime--just like Marco--"

Jean choked,"O-ok then miss perfect, what do _you_ watch?"

_Don't think about it, don't think about it._

"I watch classy things like UFC and football."

Reiner laughed, "Wow you all have bad taste in--hey!"

Before he could even finish everyone started throwing trash at him.

"You and Bert have the absolute worst taste in shows. I'd rather watch cartoons with Connie than watch your weird shit, Mr. I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant." Jean said.

"You can't even get pregnant, why the fuck do you watch that?" Connie laughed.

"First of all, it's very informative. Second of all that's not even my favorite show! Sex Sent Me to the ER is my show. It's fucking hilarious. Don't bash on my TLC, runts."

"I cannot believe you openly admitted that." Connie said in his most disappointed voice.

"I once caught Bert crying at an episode of 19 Kids and Counting." Said Annie.

They went on roasting Reiner and poor Berthold, who couldn't even defend himself. The group continued to spill out their weird likes and dislikes, the deeper in the conversation they got, the more they laughed. He learned more about his friends than he wished he did, but some secrets were pretty obvious, like the fact that Armin and Eren still slept on the same bed when Armin would sleepover. It's been like that since elementary school.

"You know what I don't like?" Connie rhetorically asked, "I don't like that we're all single. Every single one of us. Are we an ugly squad?"

Reiner boomed with laughter, "Speak for yourself, baldy, I'm a beast."

"None of us have time for dating." Mikasa stated, "We're all in different after school clubs, and some of us even work. You should be more focused in your school work, Connie."

Jean laughed, "Wait? Which one of you lazy asses got a job?" 

"Ymir got a job at Red Lobster thanks to Marco." Reiner answered.

Connie turned to Annie, "Oh! That reminds me, we're throwing you and Marco a party after your matches, ya know, to congratulate you for winning."

"That's not until next month, why are you planning so ahead?"

_Wow, she didn't mention she might lose. Must be nice being so goddamn confident._

"Because parties are the shieeet and we love having any excuse to throw them."

The group fell into an excited conversation about watching Annie and Marco's hard work pay off at the mixed martial arts gym her dad owned. Jean knew Marco had always been into fighting. When he first entered elementary he saw him teaching Thomas some boxing moves, but neither were good at it at the time. Sometime in middle school he quit the school's boxing club to join the Brazilian Jiu Jitsu club that was a few blocks away from school. Jean didn't know what he was doing now, but apparently he was still fighting.

The fact that the angelic-looking boy was a human weapon may or may not be a big reason Jean refuses to even glance at Marco. Jean had successfully avoided Marco freshman year through his Junior. They had had no classes whatsoever, the only time he'd seen him was during their mutual friends get together, but they never came near each other. He remembers feeling uncomfortable as fuck when he learned they had a couple classes together this year.

Jean tried not to think of his last period that he would soon have to endure. It made his stomach twist in anxiety. He was glad he had friends there, but he would also be there...that freckled boy he still couldn't bring himself to look at because the awkwardness would probably make him cringe. Mikasa's comment popped in his head.

_So what if he also watches trash? It doesn't mean we're into the same type, right? I wonder if he reads manga too... fuck. No. I don't care, I don't care..._

The bell rang again, this time sounding like nails to a blackboard. He was reluctant to go, but stood once everyone else was up and moving. With a scowl on his face, he moved towards the sea of people, watching as everyone but Mikasa disappeared. They walked in silence up the stairs and around the corner to their anatomy class. During the last few seconds he had before going inside, he always wished he could let go of his pride and beg his friend to skip class with him, but like always he swallowed and charged forward. Plus he already skipped 2nd period (the other class he has with Freckles) enough times to cause his mother grief.

Dr. Zoe was at the door like always greeting the students. Their goggles never leaving their face and hair up in a lazy pony tail. He had to admit he liked this teacher, they were fucking crazy. He remembers being freaked out on the first day of school at the amount of posters that were plastered on the walls. They were all different types of the human body: some naked, some just bones, but most showing just muscles without skin. The only spots saved from the posters were the bottom of the walls.

He also remembers feeling the blood drain out of his face when he heard Marco's name being called during attendance. He had been so wrapped up in his conversation with Eren about how their first day was going that he didn't notice him or Sasha behind them. It had knocked the wind out of him. All he could think about was if the freckled boy would pretend Jean never bullied him or if he'd punch him the minute they made eye contact. Jean was lucky Marco had some self control.

Once he entered the classroom he held his breath, making sure to avoid a certain area behind his desk, just in case. Mikasa was already in her seat in the front row as he made his way towards his. He let his breath go as he saw a familiar yet punchable face.

"Hey, horseface." Eren said as Jean took his seat next to him.

"Hey, how's your anger management classes going?" Joked Jean.

"Shut the fuck up."

They fell into their usual conversation as they waited for the rest of the class to file in. Eren, once again, talking about the hot psych teacher Jean was afraid of. He also had psychology, but at a different period.

"Did you see what he was wearing today?" Eren asked with a smile.

"Fucking clothes?"

"Fucking _tight_ clothes. I swear he's teasing me."

"You do realize he'd probably murder you if he heard you talking like that about him, right? I don't find the appeal, to be honest."

"He's the type of man you'd call daddy." Eren laughed at his own joke.

"Nah man, you know who's daddy material? Mr. Clean, that's who. He's bald, ripped, and has a mother fuckin' ear piercing."

Eren gagged, "Ew, that's like putting Bert's height, mixed with Reiner's build, mixed with your ugly ass ears, mixed with Connie's dumbass head. Gross."

"Ok, that does sound gross, but you just insulted my ears, so fuck you."

"Fine, fine. What about KFC man, Colonel Sanders?"

"I love a man who can cook."

The boys continued their embarrassing conversation, pretending not to notice the look of disownment Mikasa had shot them with, and eventually talking about semi normal things. Jean pretended to listen to Eren as his body tensed up to a familiar sound.

He tried not to think of the familiar laugh he heard enter the room--accompanied by Sasha's gargle--, he tried not to smell the comforting aroma of grass mixed with old spice as a certain someone passed their black science desk to sit behind Eren, he tried so hard to ignore Sasha who was now kicking the back of his seat on purpose.

Everyone knew he and Marco weren't friends, but they didn't know why..well sort of. Jean had bullied Marco in elementary and middle school and now he was too embarrassed to apologize, or if he even could, to the freckled boy. He would never admit as to _why_ he bullied Marco, no matter how many times they would pester him.

"Jeeeeaan! Pay attention to meeeee!" Sasha kicked.

Eren turned back, "So Marco, how was the movie I lent you..."

_Awww yissss, thank you Jesus, he's being distracted. Now I can shout at vacuum girl for fucking kicking me._

"What do you want, brat? And stop fucking kicking my chair."

She dramatically gasped, "I work so hard every morning, waking up an hour before I really should to feed my children, and this is the thanks I get?"

He rolled his eyes, "OK, ok, I'm sorr--"

"I feed you nothing but love and you shit on my heart when you're finished!" She clutched her left boob and looked up at the ceiling with a look of despair.

"Theater hasn't improved your acting."

"Jean you ass!" 

"I'm joking! Geezas. Thank you, mother, for your delicious meals. They are the highlight of my day. Now, what is it that you want from me?"

She rolled her eyes, "I'm having a little get together Saturday to celebrate getting through the first week of hell and you're coming and you're bringing drinks--legal or not is fine--and wear old clothes 'cause we'll be outside makin' s'mores aaaaand there was something else..."

"Bring your outdoor projector screen." Cut in a deep, but gentle voice beside her.

Jean's eyes almost looked at the person next to her, but his willpower was surprisingly strong. He heard Sasha snap her fingers.

"Yeah! That's it! We're gonna play video games on the side of my house ."

"I don't think that's what your parents meant when they said you need to get out more."

Eren laughed, "Marco you better bring Mario Kart, I'm fucking boss at it and you've been number one for way too long."

"Is that a challenge I hear?" Sasha mused.

Marco giggled,"Nah, it's only a challenge if the opponent is good. I've seen you play, Eren, and you suck."

_How the fuck can he sound so innocent and nice while insulting someone? Eren, you traitor, stop giggling back!..._

Jean tried not to join in on their laughter, but failed. Anyone who made fun of Eren always made Jean laugh. He made the mistake of looking at the person next to Sasha. 

"Hey, Jean."

The warm, inviting voice made him freeze. Jean couldn't do anything to move his eyes from the hazel brown ones that were looking back at him. He didn't dare gaze anywhere else, he couldn't even if he wanted to, he was too stunned. 

_Fuuuuuuck did he see me? Of course he did you moron, you're literally still looking at him! That's why he said hi! Fucking say something, you're just looking at him like an idiot! Shit! What do I say? Do I apologize? No! That's fucking stupid! I should just say hi back like a normal person!_

Before Jean could say anything, the bell rang, announcing the start of the class. He quickly turned back around, ignoring how hard his heart was pounding. That had been the first time in years he's seen Marco. Like, actually made eye contact and not stare from far away. He had only seen the boys light brown eyes for a second, but it was enough to obscure his thoughts and vision, along with a flashback from his fifth grade days before he arrived.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
_Jean stared mindlessly at his friends chatter. He sighed as he rested his palms on his chin--they were talking about girls again. Lately it feels like that's all they talk about. He was well aware that there was only a couple weeks left of fifth grade and that soon they'd be in a school filled with older, more mature girls, but all this talk about the opposite sex bored him out of his mind. There were way better things to talk about--like the CD his mom gave him that contained his new favorite song,_ Tearin Up My Heart _by_ *NSYNC, _but every time he tried to change the subject his friends dismissed him._

_Maybe it was a good thing he didn't tell the gang his new favorite band. They'd tease him if they found out the reason he dyed the top of his hair that way was because of Lance Bass and Justin Timberlake, his favorite band members. Most of the time he didn't care about letting his friends know about his weird obsessions, but for some reason he felt uneasy regarding his new idols. He brushed the thought out of his head and daydreamed about them anyway--to him, they were cool._

_"..ean... earth to Jean!" Eren yelled from beside him._

_"Huh? What?"_

_"Stop spacing out. We have a serious question here. Daz says Mikasa is hot and Thomas agrees. Please tell me that you don't!"_

Serious question, yeah right.

_"I don't know, I've never thought about it before."_

_Daz sighed in annoyance from behind him, "Well think about it now."_

__

_If Mikasa was in their class and was hearing this conversation, they'd all be dead and Daz would probably pee his pants. He always admired that part of her; Mikasa was a badass. He once saw her get in a fight with a blonde girl who punched Eren in the gut, it was a draw, but Jean couldn't look away at how masculine she was and how it went so well with her. She was the toughest person he knew. He had to admit she was pretty, but he never paid much attention to her face or anything else... except maybe her arm muscles because he himself was a bit on the chubby side still. His love for her was on the friend side and didn't really see it going anywhere from there._

__

_"Well, she's cool and stuff. I guess if you really look at her she's pretty, but--"_

__

_"No, not you too!" Eren cried, his voice going up a few octaves, as he dramatically buried his head in his palms._

__

_Thomas snickered, "I knew it. Told ya she was hot. You just don't see it 'cause she's your sis."_

__

_Jean shook his head, "No, that's not how i mean it--"_

__

_"Stop lying, dude. Don't act all shy. Or could it be that you really like her?" Laughed Daz, shaking his chair from behind._

__

_"Now that you mention it, he used to stare at her all the time in P.E." Thomas unnecessarily added._

__

_Jean could feel the heat of embarrassment and anger rush to his face. There was no point in correcting the idiots, they'd take his denial as the opposite. All he could do was cross his arms and frown at them. He wouldn't have cared if they were teasing him about any other person, but Mikasa? She was his friend and he didn't want it to sound like he was appalled by her--plus she meant a lot to Eren, so he'd never say anything negative about her. They were step brothers and it'd be weird if he did like her anyway._

__

_"I don't like her like that." He managed to kindly say, but the bell rang at the same time, drowning his voice._

__

_The first bell announced the beginning of homeroom announcements. It was both a blessing-- because they no longer could continue their conversation, and a curse--because he wanted to clear things up before Daz (the king of rats) could tattle on him to Mikasa._

__

_Before he could over think the situation, Ms. Ral got up from her desk to the front of the classroom._

__

_"I only have a couple things to say today. It's actually good news and bad news. Which do you want to hear first?"_

__

_"Gooood!" Cheered the class._

__

_Jean could almost see Daz's face contorted in worry with the mention of bad news. He's a weenie._

__

_The teacher giggled, "I know it's the end of the year already, I'm sure you're all aware of that too, but we're going to welcome a new student tomorrow! They were supposed to come in today, but they're from Jinae, so obviously it's a bit far and they need to rest up a bit before joining Sina Elementary! Let's make them feel at home, ok?"_

__

_"Is it a girl or boy?" Thomas asked. The class laughed._

__

_"He's a boy, Thomas." Ms. Ral sighed with a smile._

__

_The boys groaned in disappointment, but the girls giggled in excitement. Jean felt a little perky, too. Maybe this guy wouldn't be such a loser like his friends. Jean didn't bother listening to the bad news, he was too busy thinking up fictional scenarios for him and his new potential best friend. By some miracle he might also be into *NSYNC. They could sing their songs together, make up dance moves WHILE they sang, maybe they could even start a fan club together!_

__

_His mind once again wandered to Justin Timberlake and the rest of the band, leaving his new potential friend behind. He never thought about how weird it was that these men preoccupied his mind all day or how he planned to go home and look at more of their pictures. It was just research to change his physique is what he'd tell himself. He ignored the shame in his chest--it's not something he was used to feeling so he immediately dismissed it._

__  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jean suddenly felt hard plastic hit him between his eyebrows.

"Headshot!" Yelled Dr. Zoe.

He completely forgot about the Nerf gun his teacher used on sleeping or distracted students and grumbled under the laughter of the classroom.

"Stop thinking about the past, Kirstein, it's note taking time! Sweet, sweet, epidermis it's your time to shine!"

He ignored the blush that crept up to his face and the eyes he felt behind his head. He tried extra hard to ignore the flutter he felt in his stomach when he heard the soft chuckle of a certain freckled boy.

_Fucked... I am so fucked._

Jean tried to forget how gloriously blinding his big, brown eyes were... and failed.


	2. Glimmering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of dopes. Marco sucks at name calling. Daz needs to pick a different profession. And Eren gets philosophical.

There was something about waking up in a warm, comfortable bed that made Marco's soul smile, but when he was forced to wake up by an unbelievably annoying alarm clock, he felt nothing but irritation. His fist quickly smashed the fragile device--breaking it into bits and pieces yet again--but he ignored it. He didn't have time to think about little things like that. It was Saturday morning and it was gym time.

 

He left his warm bed, mentally blaming himself for only sleeping in his trunks, and quickly skipped to the bathroom outside his room. His favorite part of the morning was taking a piss, he just couldn't compare the sense of relief to anything else.

 

When he was done he made sure to give Lil Marco the ol' tap-tap-wipe and flushed. He quickly brushed his teeth, knowing by heart his little brother would be banging on the bathroom at any second.

 

"Marco, are you in there? I need to pee!"

 

He chuckled, "I'm done, I'm done."

 

He turned off the faucet and swung the door open to see the twelve year bouncing in place with impatience. Without saying a word, the kid shoved Marco out of the way, slamming the door behind him.

 

Rising so early in the morning on a Saturday was a normal thing to do at the Bott house. Marco used to be the only one to do it when he was in middle school to go to his martial arts class, but now his brother joined him in routine - except he was into karate. Marco couldn't help but feel pride in himself for getting his sibling into his own interest.

 

Once he entered his room again he began to change into his black compression tights and a hoodie, it was like his second skin. While he waited for his brother to finish, he grabbed his phone to check if he had any new notifications.

 

**(2) New Messages**  
**From Daz Crazy:**  
**\--Marco, hey, I got the bag of CANDY for u. Txt me ASAP.**

 

_Candy? What candy?_

 

**\--Hey dude, u know I get paranoid about keeping CANDY at my house sp jsut tell when yuir comingg!!**

 

_Oh, right, "candy"_

 

**To: Daz Crazy**  
**\--sorry man, I'll go get it in a couple hours. I'm leaving to the gym rn. Txt ya later.**

 

Before his friend could reply, Marco put his phone on silent. He grabbed his duffle bag from the corner of his bed (which was always ready to go) and shoved his phone in. His muscles tensed up with anticipation like always when he felt excited.

 

He left his room, looking at himself in the bathroom to make sure his hair was decent enough, before heading downstairs to see his brother already waiting. They were both a jittering mess as they climbed into his old Tahoe, dumping their bags in the back in the process. His brother quickly turned on the radio to his favorite station--playing Sublime at full volume--Marco didn't mind, he was wide awake already.

 

"Mom told me to tell you she's gonna pick me up from the club since it ends early today!" yelled the preteen over the music.

 

He nodded his head as he backed out of their driveway.

 

Marco was glad he'd be able to get the dope earlier than expected, he didn't want Daz to yell at him for 'taking his time'. He wondered why such a skittish person would want to go into that type of business, it was good for him - since he gets free weed sometimes - but he worried for his friend.

 

The road towards Leonhart was traffic free like always, and like always, Marco rolled his window all the way down to feel the warm August wind surround him. The smell of fresh morning air mixed with cement comforted the boys; they made sure to remember the relaxing sensation it caused because soon they'd be sore and bruised, but for now they sat smiling and slumped in their seats.

 

Marco's gaze shifted from the road when he got a glimpse of a familiar face up ahead.

 

_Right on time_

 

Ever since he joined Annie's gym years ago, he'd see Jean running every Saturday morning on his way there. At first he didn't pay much attention, but a couple weeks ago a dog started appearing behind him, barking with all its little might at him. Marco made it a game to guess what days Jean would snap and chase the dog back, and apparently today was one of those days. He could hear his brother laughing beside him.

 

"Your friend is weird."

 

"He's not my... He's my friend's friend."

 

"Well he's always around when your friends come over, so he's your friend, too."

 

He rolled his eyes and decided not to get into the topic of what a friend really is. This year would definitely be an interesting one though, considering the fact they shared two classes together; maybe Jean would stop being so stubborn and talk to him. Either way, Marco didn't care, but it'd just be easier if they could talk. He decided he'll try to approach him later at the get together. 

 

Remembering about the bonfire Sasha was holding filled him up with much wanted positive vibes. It had been a long while since he got to hang out with his friends. He used to work two jobs, but his mother saw how much he was struggling and made him quit one. He had to juggle work, school, his hobbies, and a social life--which definitely had been struggling.

 

He felt selfish for wishing his father could send money in from Jinae so he wouldn't have to work at all and focus mainly on school, but he knew his father lived alone and struggled just as much as them.

 

_It's alright. Mom has been supporting us since I was small and I'm helping her now, so we're fine without the extra money... totally fine.. we're so fine we can afford to put Micah in karate ... hella fine... so fine we only starve twice a month waiting for our paychecks... trés fine... I just don't understand why dad doesn't let us go visit or even comes visit us, we can do without the cash, but Micah needs him. It's been how many years now?...no, no, he'll be fine... we'll be fine._

 

"Man, I wish the AC worked." His brother whined.

 

"We're fine!" 

 

Marco unconsciously clenched the steering wheel tighter, pushing indignant thoughts out of his mind. He ignored the questioning look his brother was giving him, not wanting to explain adult conflicts. He wasn't sure he wanted to talk about their family drama either; he was afraid his efforts of keeping a happy family would crumble if they saw him yelling and enraged. He could handle anything, anything but that.

 

"Alright, bye Micah, have a good class." He said as he reached behind him to give him his bag.

 

"Bye, weirdo number two."

 

The door slammed shut before he could defend himself. With a shrug of his shoulders he headed towards his building, singing along with the radio, enjoying the air once again. 

\-----------------------------------------

"C'mon Marco, you're still a little slow! We've been working on your strikes for half an hour now!" Yelled coach Shadis.

 

Marco knew perfectly well he was slower than he liked when it came to boxing; his specialty was jiu jitsu, but the gym only held boxing matching with the club members since that's what most of them took. He also wanted to participate, thinking it'd be easy since he used to practice back then, but damn was he wrong.

 

His arms felt heavy and they burned with hot numbness as he snapped his right hand to the punching bag. The half hour before this he was ducking and weaving Shadis's punches - hands never leaving the side of his face - but the ruthless coach still managed to deliver him blows to the head.

 

"Move those hips, pretty boy, it creates a better impact when you strike! Don't stand on your heels, you'll be easily unbalanced! Don't you dare lower your hands! I thought you said you had experience? It seems to me like this is your first time! Am i popping your boxing cherry?!"

 

If his shit talking was supposed to motivate him, it was working. Each punch he gave was stronger - and more painful - than the last. Jab. Cross. Hook. Cross. His breathing and flow were beginning to match and it didn't go unnoticed by the coach.

 

He heard the coach snicker, "Alright, alright, you get it. Let's stop, don't want to kill ya and what not. We're done, but you still need more practice if you want to survive the ring."

 

Without waiting for a response from the breathless boy he left to motivate some other poor guy. 

 

"Connie said not to forget the weed." 

 

Marco turned to the familiar, monotone voice, "Annie, hey," he huffed, "Please don't say that too loud, I don't want your dad to kill me."

 

She shrugged, "I'm about to head out. I'll see you at Sasha's later."

"Alright, see ya."

Of course Annie wouldn't be red faced or sweating, you'd think she would with how hard she trains, but Marco had to admit she was pretty flawless. 

 

He headed towards the locker room, looking around at the other fighters, wondering what kept them motivated. Marco used to have a reason why he dabbled in martial arts. His father taught him when he was younger, but after the divorce his mother packed up and took her kids to where they live now. There was no reason to continue, until his bullies started to get physical with him.

 

Jean was the only one who teased him those two weeks he was at Sina Elementary, but middle school was a different story. Those are the years kids follow what's cool and bad. Jean wasn't a threat since they only had P.E. together, he was more like the yapping, small dog that had been yelling at him, but the other kids noticed the way he treated Marco and the way he wouldn't fight back. At first, it was just name calling: Freckles, Freckled Jesus, loser, pushover, and other unimaginative names. But then they started to bump into him in the hallways, hiding his book bag when he stepped out of the classroom, and tripping him when he was holding his books or lunch tray.

 

He remembers how Eren and Mikasa would threaten anyone they caught bothering him, but they didn't have any classes together, so he was mostly with Daz. That was when he decided to join the school's boxing club. He didn't want anyone being burdened by his annoying problem. It wasn't that big of deal to him either way; he just didn't want it to get out of hand. He didn't develop a real connection to fighting until he met Annie in seventh grade, when she introduced her father's gym to him.

 

Once he reached the locker room, he opened up his bag and took out his phone, knowing by heart that Daz probably sent him a million messages. 

 

**From: Daz Crazy**  
**\--Dude?!**  
**\--u texted me on Thursday that u needed this CANDY! Do you know what day it is?...**  
**\--It's Saturday! I haven't slept since then, man!**  
**\--I'LL BE ON MY PORCH**

 

**To: Daz Crazy**  
**\--sorry man, i had to work on Friday.**  
**\--I'm on my way there**

 

_Guess I can't change or shower_

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Marco could easily spot Daz's house. Not because of it's ugly mint color or its lack of grass on the lawn, but because of the way the skittish boy was rocking so hard on his chair on the porch.

 

"Yo!" Marco called out when he parked on the curb.

 

"Heeeey, buddy!" Daz jumped up and ran to him.

 

"Buddy? Why are you--"

 

"Shhh, c'mere, get closer, I need to tell you something."

 

"What is it?"

 

"No, get closer, I have to whisper it into your ear."

 

"Ew, why'd you have to say it so weird?"

 

"No, c'mon man, c'mere."

 

"Dude, just tell me--"

 

"It's ok, I'm not gay, so don't think I'm hitting on you, just listen!"

 

"Wow, ok, first of all--"

 

"C'mon, bro, get closer, this is important!"

 

"Get away from my ear, Daz!"

 

"Bro, c'mon, bro, stop shoving my head away, this is for your own safety!"

 

"Ok, fine!"

 

Daz looked to his left, then slowly to his right, to make sure nobody was watching. He leaned closer to Marco's ear, puckering his lips as small as he could to make the least amount of noise. He took in a shaky breath and paused. 

 

"Dammit! I totally forgot! Why'd you have to argue with me, man!"

 

Marco sighed, "You just spat all over my face. Anyway, if you forgot then it mustn't have been that important, right? Here's the money, by the way."

 

He handed the shaking boy a pack of gum that contained the money inside.

 

"A-alright, I'll go get it."

 

If Marco didn't know any better, he'd say Daz was already a little under the influence. He watched as the scrawny boy ran to the porch, lean down, and pull up a box full of soda cans. This time he walked at a turtle's pace, trying not to trip.

 

"Here's your onion."

 

He cocked his eyebrow, "There's an ounce in there?"

 

"Yeah man, i had to separate them. Aren't these cool? There's no actual coke inside, you just pop the bottom open and ram the weed right in its hole."

 

"Oh yeah, I've heard of those. Thanks man... and please work on your choice of words."

 

"I don't know what you mean, but ok. See ya, bro, I'm about to go sleep with the Sandman."

 

Marco laughed, "Ok, you go do that."

 

The weight of the fake cans were light enough to hold on one arm as he opened the passenger door, placing them on the chair since his gym bag was on the floor. He jumped in the car and slid to the driver's seat, feeling a little bothered by Daz's forgotten secret. He shook his head to wiggle the anxiety out of him, put his seatbelt on, and drove.

 

When he was down the street near the stop sign, his mouth went wide open as he saw Daz flailing his arms like a mad man from his rear view mirror. He could hear him yelling.

 

"I remember! I remember! ... Fuck!"

 

The sudden wailing of a cop car made him break too harshly.

 

_Ah, so he forgot that there was a cop making rounds in his neighborhood. Great._

 

He looked at his rear view mirror again, but of course Daz was already gone, probably hiding under his bed. 

 

The police took his sweet time walking towards the Tahoe. His face showed no sign that he was in a good mood; it was round and red from the heat. As he came closer, Marco unconsciously looked down at the fake cokes he had next to him.

 

"H-hello officer." Marco stuttered.

 

"You know why I stopped you? You just ran that stop sign, lemme see your license and registration."

 

Without responding he gathered his information and gave it to the sweating cop.

 

"I'll be right back." 

 

As soon as he was gone Marco pulled out his phone and texted his shit dealer. 

 

**To: Daz Crazy**  
**\--YOU FORGOT THAT THERE WAS A COP?**

 

**From: Daz Crazy**  
**\--I HAVEN'T SLEPT IN TWO DAYS STOP YELLING AT ME**

 

**To: Daz Crazy**  
**\--alright alright, sorry. It's not a big deal anyway, i just ran a stop sign.**

 

Daz didn't respond after that. He leaned his head on the back of the seat and exhaled. Today hasn't been going the way he wanted. His mind kept thinking about unnecessary people like his father early in the morning, which caused his hype to die, and he didn't do as good as he wanted at training. Now he's probably going to get a ticket.

 

_Why do i fuck up so much?_

 

Twenty minutes later and the cop stepped out of his vehicle holding Marco's information in one hand and a long white paper on the other.

 

"Here's your info and here's your ticket. Have a nice day."

 

"Th-thank you, sir."

 

He was about to leave, but then the officer suddenly stopped and squinted to what was next to Marco. 

 

"Say, are those cokes?"

 

"Yes sir." He gulped. 

 

"It's pretty hot out here, mind if I have one?"

 

_Yes! Yes i really do!_

 

"Well, they're n-not cold or anything so..." 

 

"That's fine! I just need some typa liquid."

 

Marco rubbed the back of his neck, "A-actually, these are for my mom - well my mom's birthday party - and you know how mom's are with bringing things back... whole."

 

"Oh, right, right," He narrowed his eyes, "Well, drive on safe, son."

 

He patted the top of his car then left. Marco could do nothing but internally scream at how close he was almost busted.

\----------------------------------------

Despite having a rollercoaster of a morning, it was nothing a nice shower, a hot meal, and a long nap couldn't fix. He had somehow managed to convince his mom that he absolutely needed to keep his case of coke in his room so Micah wouldn't try to steal some. She gave him a questioning look, since Marco always shared his things with his siblings, but decided not to pursue it.

 

He started getting ready around eight , when he was done with his homework and laundry, ignoring how Sasha was sending him text after text telling him not to be late.

 

"How long will you be out?" Asked his mom from the couch when he stepped downstairs.

 

"I'll text you, I won't stay out too late."

 

He moved the box of soda to his side and bent down and kissed her forehead, doing the same to his little brother who was too entranced with what was on tv to care.

 

"Don't get into trouble."

 

He chuckled, "I won't, love you."

 

"Love you, too."

 

The weather outside was still hot, but he didn't mind. He was too busy appreciating the setting sun and the long, cast of shadows it created. The hues of purple, orange, and yellow that reflected from the sky made his gray Tahoe look like a piece of art. 

 

Summer nights were his favorite. He could roll down his window and listen to all the critters chirping and buzzing - creating music only he seemed to appreciate. 

 

The way to Sasha's neighborhood was in the opposite direction of the gym and it was way further. The roads were filled with traffic. Everyone was trying to get somewhere: a house party, a sleepover, hotel, a secret lover's place, or home. He wondered how they were all doing in life, if they were happy or depressed.

 

Summer nights definitely made him a sap.

 

Eventually the stop and goes decreased and in fifteen minutes he was in front of his friends house. He recognized the couple of cars that were there, trying not to roll his eyes at the red Jetta near her mailbox that belonged to Jean.

 

_Looks like I'm the last one_

 

Without bothering to check if the door was locked, he swung open, "Aunt Mary and me are home!"

 

"Aunt Mary and _I_." Came a giggling Armin, along with Sasha.

 

"There's my baby boy, you're late! Nice, you brought drinks!" She tugged his free arm, pulling him towards the backyard.

 

"Sorry, _mamma_ , but no I didn't bring drinks. Daz was too afraid to give me an ounce in one bag, so he stuck them in these."

 

She grumbled, "That boy, I swear. This is equivalent to when an ugly boy has a great personality."

 

"Well, it's still an ounce."

 

"Fine, it's equivalent to an ugly boy with a great personality who has a big di--"

 

Armin blushed, "Sasha! Please don't say stuff like that!"

 

They cackled as Sasha opened the door to the back. Connie and Eren were already playing; he could immediately tell who was losing.

 

"Fuck you, baldie!" Cussed Eren. 

 

"Sorry, you're not my type, loser."

 

Mikasa swatted the boys as she watched from behind, Armin and Sasha going to their direction; he's been over enough times that she no longer had to say "make yourself at home". Everyone else was around the fire, like flies to the light - except Annie - she was huddled near a tree. He could hear the low murmurs coming from Bertholdt and Reiner; they were always in their own little world. He couldn't help but smile at how obvious they were.

 

Once they exchanged hello's, he joined in whatever conversation Ymir and Krista were having, enjoying the sense of comfort that he fit in so easily. Being around everyone felt like he had more than one sibling, but there was a certain someone who he just couldn't see that way.

 

Jean was sitting across from him, quietly glaring at the fire that hid the bottom half of his face. He could see the flames dancing in his eyes as he daydreamed. Marco felt a pang of guilt that he was there. Jean would always stop interacting with the group once he arrived, no matter the circumstances. He looked so out of place, sitting with them, and yet not actually _being_ there.

 

He used to understand why Jean never liked him; everyone knew Marco accidentally embarrassed Jean at lunch many years ago, but now he didn't know why he kept up that act. If he would've allowed him to apologize things would be different, but the stubborn boy was definitely hard headed. His scowl would deepen and he'd tighten his lips when Marco got close, so he just eventually gave up trying to be friends. Jean made it clear he was unwelcomed.

 

Of course, Marco being Marco, couldn't lose all of his faith in Jean. This year gave him the opportunity to befriend the boy and he decided he would give it one last try. He knew their friends loved Jean just as much as they loved him, so it would be worth the effort. 

 

Marco's eyes bugged out as soon as Jean met his gaze, but before he could say hi to the angry boy, Jean stood up, muttering to himself, and awkwardly walked towards Connie and Eren.

 

"Give me that! You guys have been hogging the game."

 

The freckled boy stood up, "I need to smoke."

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

One joint later and Marco was a happy dope. He was relaxing on the grass, looking up at the starless, yet beautiful sky, humming random tunes. Reiner and Ymir had helped him make well over twenty joints when they collected all the pot. He wouldn't be needing Daz's services for a long while.

 

The pungent smell was inhaled by everyone; it was as if the smoke was it's own life form and it was going around tapping them on the head saying, "here, you deserve to unwind." The only unfortunate soul who wasn't able to relax was Armin, he was coughing up a lung in the kitchen.

 

"You know what I've been thinking?" Asked Eren.

 

_What the fuuuu...how long has he been next to me?_

 

Marco chuckled at his own slowness, "No, what?"

 

"What if the government, or whoever controls us, has the cure for every disease, but they don't give it to us in order to maintain population control? What if they only give it to the rich and powerful and that's why they live to be old and crusty while we're all dying from cancer, diabetes, and other diseases?"

 

"I... what?"

 

"What'cha doin'?" Suddenly appeared Sasha, looking down at the boys.

 

"Nothin' much." Marco giggled

 

"Come play!"

 

"Mm?"

 

She quickly bent down, yanking his hand towards the old school Nintendo console, leaving Eren to his thoughts. He hadn't noticed what game they were playing until he heard the familiar jingle. 

 

"You didn't bring Mario Kart, so I had to go all the way to my house to bring a second console and projector screen. " Connie complained while he played. 

 

Reiner boomed with laughter beside him, "Shut up, you live right next door."

 

"Why didn't you guys just play a game that allowed multi players?" 

 

"Because we're feeling nostalgic and want to play some Super Mario brothas!"

 

Sasha sighed, "Connie, you're an idiot. Let Marco play."

 

"Fine, but I'm about to go eat half your fridge."

 

"Not if I beat you there." Reiner got up and ran inside as if he just had to eat right then and there.

 

"Sit, I'll go find you a playing buddy." She winked.

 

Marco was too spaced out to find any meaning to her gesture. He happily inspected the block shaped controller, humming to the tune.

 

"Sit! And I don't want to see you out of this chair until you smile or else you won't get fed." 

 

Beside him, Jean was forcibly seated. He tightly crossed his arms, but didn't protest. Food is a great tool to use against the stoned.

 

He had successfully avoided Marco throughout the night, making sure to stay away from his direction, but Jean was like a glimmer of light, faintly flickering in the corner of his eyes, always catching his attention. The freckled boy laughed to himself, realizing how much he's thought of Jean today.

 

"I'll be back in a minute to see how you two are doing! Don't kill each other!"

 

Marco laughed, "She sure knows how to make things awkward. C'mon let's play."

 

_No response? That's ok, didn't expect one_

 

They pressed start at the same time, never looking at the other's screen. It felt uncomfortable to play with Jean. He wasn't making any sort of sounds like Marco was. The freckled boy was merrily cheering for himself while the other painfully smashed the buttons. Marco was too high to be good at playing, his reaction was slow, causing him to die by the hands of treacherous turtle way too early.

 

Jean shot up, "I won! Nice try, Freckles!"

 

_Freckles? Are we back in elementary school?_

 

"I'll beat you this time, Horseface." He stood, smiling at the fact that he was now talking to him.

 

The other boys jaw dropped, as if he was surprised Marco would talk back to him, "We'll see about that, Freckled Jesus."

 

Marco giggled, "Bring it on, Pony Boy."

 

Jean let go of his control and stepped towards Marco. His face was a lot closer than he'd like.

 

"Dip N Dots."

 

_Oh my god, he's actually mad, that's so funny_

 

" _Neigh neigh neigh neigh neigh_!!" 

 

"That's not even a name! You're just making horse noises you useless ellipsis!"

 

"My bad, Sarah Jessica Parker... no wait, I don't mean that, she's a nice lady."

 

Jean scoffed, "Hey, I'm good enough to _be_ Sarah Jessica Parker."

 

"You're being idiots, stop fighting!" Yelled Bertholdt. 

 

Before Marco could assure them it wasn't serious, his breath caught in his throat. He wasn't talking to Jean and Marco, he was talking to Annie and Mikasa, who were deadly glowering at each other. Eren was struggling to keep Mikasa back, but in one swoop, Reiner had Annie over his shoulder with Bert following behind. Nobody said a word. The boys were left wondering what in the hell happened while they were wrapped up in their stupid argument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to write a fic with all 12 of their pov. But it was too hard u.u so I'm sticking with these babies, hope you enjoyed!  
> ps I've never read a fic with Marco speaking Italian (if you know of one where he does, pls let me know) so I felt compelled to make him do it here  
> sorry if i fuck up the beautiful language in the future


	3. Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean thinks he's a dick, and he is, but he's more like an average sized dick who still deserves love. *NSYNC fans never really die. Sometimes sleep doesn't make things better.

Monday's suck. If Monday's were a thing it'd be the ends of bread that everyone always tried to avoid until they had no choice but to face it. The students at Maria High were bravely confronting their groggy demons, walking like zombies who were ready to maul the others who were too perky for being up at an ungodly hour. Even some teacher's faces showed signs of an unhealthy sleeping pattern as they welcomed their second period students to class with yawns and dark under eye circles.

 

On any other day, Jean would've belonged to the undead, but his stomach was twisting with anxiety as he slowly walked to his language arts class, giving him unwelcomed alertness. He had successfully skipped that room last week for four days straight due to the fact that a certain freckled saint would be there too. He knew he was being unreasonably afraid, but he just couldn't help it. Needless to say he was still reluctant to go, but if he missed anymore days, he'd get in trouble with the teacher - or worse - his mother would get involved.

 

If he had at least one friend in that class, he'd be able to handle it, they'd be like a cushion he could fall on if Marco tried to interact with him. That's what made him capable of enduring their anatomy class - _distractions_. With a school as big as this, which contained over three thousand kids, he was lucky enough to have _any_ periods with his friends.

 

He enters the classroom right when the final bell rings, being careful to avoid the stares he feels coming from the group of students. His teacher was sitting on his desk, smiling down at a brochure filled with bright colors and palm trees. He was an old bald man, but his face showed no sign of the permanent glower the elderly usually wore.

 

"Hello, are you new to my class?" He asked, looking up from his table.

 

"Uh, no. I-I'm Jean Kirstein, I was here last week..."

 

_For one day_

 

His ancient hands reached for a clipboard, running a finger down a list, "Ah, so you've finally decided to join us, Jean."

 

"I-I've been sick."

 

He gave Jean a knowing smile, "Yeah, sure, that's why you show up at your other classes, huh?" 

 

The words he tried to get out fumbled with his tongue and instead came out like a stuttering mess.

 

His teacher laughed, "Calm down, calm down. You're a senior, I can't smack your hand over every bad thing you do. While you were gone, I created a seating chart. Seat number one is reserved for anybody who feels like acting out. They'll have the honor of sitting right next to me. You're in seat number six," his head moved to the side, facing the room full of tired students, "Number seven, raise your hand."

 

Jean slowly turned around and prayed to whoever was controlling his life to grant him this one wish: _let it be anyone, but him_.

 

Ever since Jean was little, he always hated scary movies. He didn't enjoy the suspense it created right before something terrifying popped out of a corner or the way it made his heart hammer against his chest. But right then and there he felt as if he was in a horror flick. 

 

The petrified boy gawked at the freckled hand that was raised far too tall and straight. He moved his eyes to the muscular shoulder it was connected to, then steadily to the smoothness of his neck that was peppered with more freckles, and finally to the most fucking amused smile Jean has ever seen anyone wear. Once Jean finally made eye contact with him, Marco gave him a little wave.

 

_This asshole!!_

 

"Lucky you, you have a friend. Please take your seat." Smiled his teacher.

 

_Fuck!_

 

Jean refused to let Marco see any more of a reaction out of him. He expressionlessly walked to his desk with his head held high, but deep down he couldn't deny how he really felt: betrayed.

 

_Whoever is controlling my life, you're fired for doing a fuck ass job_

 

Now that he wasn't as distracted, he noticed the desks in class were in groups of three, which meant he might have the cushion he was looking for. He looked under the desk to see if the unoccupied desk in their circle had any signs of life, like a book bag or textbooks under their chair, but found none.

 

_I can't be this unlucky...right?_

 

Marco cleared his throat, trying to hide the delight in his voice, "Our number five got switched to a different class last week, looks like it's just the two of us."

 

Before Jean could have any sort of reaction, the teacher began class.

 

"I see a couple new faces, so let me just repeat the most important things I mentioned last week. First, I'm Mr. Pixis. Second, I'll be an easy teacher since I'm retiring this year. Third, we'll be doing a lot of reading, so be prepared. I won't be giving out any homework whatsoever, _but_ you will be having multiple little quizzes after every short story, novel, play - whatever we read - to make up for that. The group you're in right now, you can decide if you want to work as partners or individually for future projects. It's easier for me to grade seven rather than twenty one, but I can't force you guys to get along. Any questions?"

 

Jean weakly raised his hand.

 

"Yes?"

 

"Are these our assigned seats for the whole semester, or..?"

 

"Oh no...", He smiled.

 

_God does love me_.

 

"..If you're lucky enough to still be with me next semester, this'll be your assigned seat for the year."

 

Jean's eye twitched. At this point he didn't care if Marco saw how his face contorted in disbelief. There was no way he would survive being around him for a whole goddamn _year_ \- if he was unlucky enough - which was proving to be the case. He wasn't mentally prepared since he had successfully dodged Marco up until this point. Now they'd have to put up with each other's presence, but it didn't mean Jean would talk to him.

 

Jean heard a muffled noise coming from Marco's direction. He decided he wouldn't _talk_ to him, but that didn't mean he couldn't _look_ at the boy. He grumpily set his head on the table, sneakily peeking at him through his eyelashes. He doesn't know what he was expecting to see, but it definitely wasn't a red faced Marco, who was already looking at him, with a fist pressed to his mouth from trying hard not to laugh.

 

Jean sat up, annoyed, "Why are you laughing?"

 

"M'sorry, it's - it's just," he breathed, "I just feel so bad because all those years you spent avoiding me were for nothing because now you have to see me everyday, and not only that, but we're table buddies."

 

The angry boy blushed. Marco had seen right through him. He didn't expect for the freckled boy to call him out so easily, as if it wasn't a big deal. If the tables were turned, and Jean had to sit with _his_ past tormentor, he wouldn't be smiling or laughing, he'd do everything in his power to beat the shit out of him. But Marco didn't look like he was ready to pounce on him, instead he looked rather entertained.

 

Jean humorlessly laughed, "Well at least one of us is happy we're together. "

 

Marco overlooked his comment, "So, I'm guessing you'd rather work individually on these projects?"

 

He scowled, "Yes!"

 

"That's too bad. I actually suck at this subject. It would be nice if we got to be partners or, you know, friends."

 

"Friends? Why do you want to be friends?"

 

"Why don't you?" He asked with a mild expression.

 

_Because I'm a pathetic piece of shit that bullied you and has too much pride with the perfect amount of shame that stops me from apologizing to you and I know deep down you probably hate me and only want to get along for the sake of our friends, which is fucking great, but I can't stop feeling guilty when I look at you._

 

Jean looked at the board, avoiding any more eye contact with Marco, and quietly said, "Because I just don't fucking _like_ you."

 

Marco didn't respond, and somehow that made him feel even worse. 

 

The rest of the period went agonizingly slow. Mr. Pixis gave them their first reading assignment - a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay named Childhood is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies - and let the groups read it together. Some students obediently recited the text to each other, while others spoke about what they did on the weekend, who they had a crush on, or how ready they were for the year to end. Either way, the only table that was quiet was Jean's. 

 

He was silently reading to himself, using his paper to shield himself from everyone since he had had enough social interactions to last him for hours, but couldn't concentrate. The uneasiness Marco caused him was now gone, but the disgrace he caused himself wasn't. Not only was he useless at stepping up to his mistakes, but now with a calm mind, he remembered how useless he was at the get together. He called Mikasa after they had all gone home, but she didn't answer. Lunch couldn't come any quicker for the worried boy.

 

He set down his paper, reached deep into his pocket, and pulled out his phone. He glanced at Mr. Pixis to make sure he wouldn't get caught texting, but he was too distracted with a different pamphlet to be concerned with rebellious teenagers.

 

**To: Big Beef**  
**\--yo, how are the girls?**

 

**From: Big Beef**  
**\--Mika didn't show up to weight training**  
**\--Bert says Annie didn't show up for class either**

 

**To: Big Beef**  
**\--lemme know if you receive any news**

 

Jean couldn't help but frown. Annie and Mikasa weren't the best of friends, in fact, they were sort of in the same boat as him and Marco, except for the fact that they _did_ get along every now and then and they were able to remain civilized when one said something the other didn't particularly agree on. If their relationship could be compared to anything, it'd be the weather. Some days it's calm and warm, but every now and then it becomes cloudy with gusts of wind. This would be the first time it's broken out this seriously.

 

Beside him, Jean heard the buzz of Marco's phone, followed by a gruffy, " _Merda_."

 

If he received any news on the situation, Jean wouldn't ask.

 

\--------------------------------

 

A definite downside of playing soccer was enduring the summer sun. The green open field had no nearby trees the boys could escape to, all they had were the metal bleachers that threatened to cook them alive if they sat on it. Either way, they couldn't rest, their coach wouldn't allow it since practice had just started. The usually obnoxious teammates were silently stretching, eyebrows furrowed to protect their eyes from the sun. Jean enjoyed the silence, he wasn't in the mood to horseplay, he had too much on his mind. 

 

When he had finally arrived at the cafeteria, the first thing he noticed was that their table was indeed lonely. The closer he got to his friends, the clearer their facial expressions became, and also the amount of food that was there. Sasha figured everyone would eat more to ease their worry, but none of them were scarfing it down (as fast) as he thought they would, instead they were softly going over what had happened.

 

Once Jean arrived, they tried to put their heads together to figure out the series of events that went down, but they had nothing. Jean had been busy name calling Marco and Connie and Reiner were busy eating Sasha's kitchen. Reiner stated that he only caught a glimpse of when Eren shot up from the ground to Mikasa's side, and naturally he ran to Annie's. It was never a good idea to mix a boxer with a wrestler - especially when they happened to be the top of their class. The boys questioned if they should even get too worked up about it, not because they were afraid of them, but because both girls were very private people.

 

"Why the hell are you two late?" Jean asked as a sweaty Bert and Eren suddenly came jogging his way.

 

Bertholdt wiped his forehead, "My mom called right when I got to the locker room. You know how she can be... speaking of tough ladies, any word from Mika? Annie has been unresponsive all day."

 

Eren sulked, "Nah, you know how they _both_ can be. I tried asking her what happened when we drove home, but she wouldn't say a word. She was already gone, God knows where, when I woke up for school. "

 

"I hate it when our lesbians fight. " Sighed Jean.

 

Bert gasped, "Krista and Ymir are fighting, too?"

 

"No, you dope," Eren laughed, "but since we're on the topic of arguments, Jean,, what's up with you and Marco?"

 

"What are you talking about?"

 

"Don't play dumb. He seemed upset today and I'm pretty sure you're the only one who can do that to him. I thought you were finally getting along since you spoke to each other the other day, but then today you were both spaced out during class."

 

_He couldn't be mad about what I said about not being friends, right?_

 

"Well did u ask him what was wrong instead of assuming it was me?"

 

"He said it was nothing, but you could just tell something was off about him."

 

"I hate it when our _gay's_ fight." Berthold softly murmured.

 

"You'd think you two would be friends with all the nerdy shit you like. You know, he was even obsessed with that corny boy band you used to like. Why can't you just get along?"

 

_Corny boy band?....oh hell no. ___

 

"Get off my back, Eren. I didn't do anything to that freckles, and for the record, their name isn't _A Corny Boy Band_ , it's *NSYNC, and they were the best thing that ever happened to me, asshole!"

 

Jean turned around and walked towards the track. Running helped; running always helped. His other teammates giggled as he trudged by them, but he didn't care. The overbearing sense of worthlessness was threatening to pour out of his mouth with sharp daggers he wouldn't be able to take back.

 

He wished he was a shadow. Shadows get ignored, but are needed when the heat becomes unbearable. They are like silent heroes, giving people a place to escape. He didn't want to be exposing like the harsh sun or as secretive as the moon, he wanted to be the shade - which contained the perfect amount of darkness _and_ light.

 

Practice only lasted for an hour due to the rising temperature. Some of the boys had even taken their shirts off - almost ready to remove just about everything they were wearing. They were soaking with sweat, sore with all the lunges and cardio they painfully endured, and panting like dogs. Everyone was in agony, but it brought a feeling of accomplishment that always followed after a great workout.

 

Everyone was too worn out to complain about the day. The team hurriedly made their way towards the locker rooms after the coach dismissed them, most not even bothering to change out of their crude uniform, they just grabbed their bags and went home. The remaining few took their sweet time to shower.

 

Jean felt better now that his body was exhausted. He didn't have space in his throbbing head to think about anything but the pleasant chilly water that was hitting his face.

 

\------------------------------

 

"Jean? Is that you?" Came an orotund voice from the kitchen.

 

"Yeah. Who else were you expecting?"

 

He drowsy boy closed the door behind him and immediately removed his shoes. God knows his mother would smack him to tomorrow if he walked in with dirty vans.

 

"You're home early."

 

"Coach let us out an hour early," He dumped his backpack on the displeasing maroon colored couch and walked towards his mother's voice, "it was hot as balls out there."

 

His mother scowled, "That's disgusting, Jeanbo!"

 

He lazily laughed at his mother's expression. Jean didn't like to admit it, but he was a lot like her. Her face was almost always frowning - especially when she was concentrating - which caused them to have unnecessarily fights due to misunderstandings. Although she had a soft, ample face with plump lips, their resembles was very noticeable. Their only - and greatest - difference were their personalities. Jean had inherited his shit character from his deadbeat father while she had a strict, yet easy going nature.

 

"I've got dinner cooking right now. You look like you're ready to pass out. Go get some sleep, ok? Dinner will here when you wake up."

 

"Nah, I'll wait until you leave for work."

 

She warmly smiled at him and turned back to the stove. He could smell the comforting odor the second she lifted the pot, humming a random tune as she stirred the contents inside it. He very much needed the feeling of home, but he knew it wouldn't last.

 

His mom worked the night shifts at the Trost Hotel, and recently she's been coming home until late mornings. Whenever he would bring up the subject of getting his own job, she quickly shut him up. She desperately wanted Jean to keep all his focus on school, so he wouldn't end up working at a place that held no significance other than making money, like her. A mother's mind is always on how her children's well being.

 

" _C'est prêt_." She sang.

 

Jean yawned, "Smells good.."

 

His mother took of her apron, revealing her housekeeping uniform underneath. She ruffled Jean's hair and kissed him on the cheek.

 

"I'll be back later. You look awful, I need you to quickly eat if you're hungry and take a nap."

 

"Yeah, yeah."

 

She grabbed her purse that was propped up on the dinner table, and walked towards the door. She swung it open and paused, mentally checking if she had everything she needed, then turned back to Jean, who was wobbling towards her.

 

"Sleep, ok?"

 

"Don't worry, I will."

 

She sighed, kissing his cheek once more before shutting the door behind her.

 

Jean walked towards the wooden stairs, his muscles screaming in disagreement with each step. His amber eyes were struggling to stay open as he followed the dark green carpet that lead to his room at the end of the hall. He ignored the shrieking silence that surrounded the now empty house and the way it made him feel lonely. 

 

His bedroom was cold, but Jean couldn't complain about it. He stripped down to his trunks as soon as he locked the door behind him and climbed up the ladder to his bed, mentally kicking himself for still having a bunk bed. Jean pulled the covers over his head and prayed he'd have a dreamless sleep.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

_"Jean!" Eren called out from behind him with a smile._

 

_He let the boy catch up then proceeded to walk towards their bus. Eren would usually sit with Mikasa, but since she had swimming classes on Friday's, Jean was stuck with him. They made their way to their seats and flowed into unimportant conversation once they sat down. Jean was a little annoyed he didn't get the window side, but decided not to mention it._

 

_Eren's neighborhood was even closer to the school than Jean's, but he also hated walking because the bus ride home at the end of a good day is the best part of school. He was always loud and Jean always matched his volume, wanting the attention._

 

_Eren suddenly sunk in their seat, whispering, "Hey, I've got something."_

 

_He dug in his book bag with a hard look of concentration until he found what he was looking for. He didn't take it out, but Jean could see it was a movie of some sort. Eren's face was a little red when he looked back at Jean._

 

_"You wanna watch a movie?" Eren murmured._

 

_Jean snatched the DVD, "Sure, what kind--"_

 

_The badly dyed hair boy's eyebrows shot up to the moon. He squealed and threw the case back at Eren who fumbled with it until it was safely back in his bag, zipped up and clutched to his chest._

 

_"Dude!" Eren yelled._

 

_"Where did you get a porn?!"_

 

_"Shhh!," Eren looked around to see if anyone heard, "Remember my parents friend, uncle Hannes? The one who lived with us? He moved out and left this behind by accident. I asked Armin to watch it with me, but he slapped me. C'mon, i don't want to watch it alone."_

 

_The only time Jean ever saw anyone doing the do was years ago on Valentine's day. He accidentally walked in on his mom and her " man friend" and has been scarred for life since then. The thought of watching people doing it made him cringe, but his young, curious mind was overpowering._

 

_Jean sighed, "Alright, I guess. But if it's gross I get to punch you."_

 

_"Deal." Eren smiled._

 

_They got off at Eren's neighborhood. Jean could sense their excitement as they quietly walked on the sidewalk. It's a good thing Mikasa was at her class; she would've killed them both for watching such a thing. Jean shuddered at the thought of someone finding them out._

 

_Maybe with this he could finally be interested in talking about girls with his friends... maybe._

 

_As they walked up the hill to Eren's brown house, he noticed his parents cars weren't there. A wave of relief spread over him when they entered the empty house. They took their shoes off and dumped their bags on the floor; Eren already had the DVD in his hand. They stalled around in the kitchen--each getting a popcorn bag of their own and water before walking up to his room._

 

_"Alright, here goes nothing." Eren announced as he put the disk in the player._

 

_Jean sat on the floor near the door, just in case it became too much, while Eren took his place on his bed. It started off simple enough. There was a girl wearing shorts way too short to go out in public and a white shirt with a very bright bra underneath. She was smiling to the camera man while she danced and funnily touched herself. Jean felt embarrassed for thinking it was funny._

 

_After a couple minutes the screen changed to a bedroom with big windows that overlooked the sea. The room had a big, white bed - and on that bed was the same dancing woman except this time she was naked._

 

_"Oh my God." Jean couldn't hide how mortified he suddenly felt._

 

_"Th-this is a normal thing to watch. Ch-chill."_

 

_Jean ate popcorn to distract himself. The screen changed again and this time there was a man with her and they were doing adult things that Jean wasn't prepared -- mentally or emotionally -- to see. He squeaked at the sight of her boobies jiggle. Why was this so interesting to other people? He couldn't understand. He knew other kids who watched this stuff behind their parents backs, but the way they described it is like nothing that he's feeling._

 

_He looked back to look at Eren to see if he's as grossed out as him. Eren pretended not to notice his stare. Jean puffs and turns back to the screen, shoving more popcorn in his mouth. The camera zooms in on the woman's face. He can't tell if it's real pleasure or not, but it makes Jean's insides twist. He looks away for a minute--then dares to look back. He's caught off guard that the camera is zoomed in on the man._

 

_He man's expression was concentrated, but he wore a creepy smile. He had blonde dyed tips on his hair, just like Lance Bass..._

 

_The sudden realization that he got stirred up by the man rather than the woman made Jean go pale. He choked on the popcorn he forgot he was chewing and shot up from the floor. Without bothering to explain anything to Eren, he coughed goodbye and ran all the way home._

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Jean's eyes popped open. He harshly rubbed his temples with the palms of his hands, almost expecting his memory to erase like it would if you pulled out the tape from an old cassette. He tried not to think of how the sun was now setting and how the trees outside his window casted monsterous hands on his floor, or how lifeless the house felt, and the bitterness that clung at the pit of his gut.

 

_Why couldn't my day fucking end peacefully?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used to have a teacher like Pixis.He'd gives us the answers to our test. Retirement sounds like fun.  
> I love how much research i had to do for some parts. I'm pretty clueless about clubs so sorry if i still end up getting inaccurate info.  
> PS i'm _planning_ for their relationship to change after chpt 4, but shit happens, so i can't promise anything u.u


	4. Radiant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lame nicknames are lame. Tattoos are memories in disguise. And parents are on a spectrum of morals.

Summer nights are a thing of magic. Everything became alive when the sun went down; all the critters that were afraid of humans would sing their love songs to the dark and the gentle breeze would whisper cozy lullabies to the ears of those who were still out. Even the light poles outside looked like mythical creatures, slumped down like a cane with mouths wide open, illuminating spots on the street to show Marco to his destination.

 

His car's engine was lowly purring, and with the combination of the wind, it slightly drowned out the voice beside him. He couldn't - and _didn't_ \- want to make out what Ymir was talking about on the phone. Her voice was husky, but he could hear the hint of flirting she did so well. Marco didn't have to look at her to already know that her facial expression would be an uninterested one. It was just typical Ymir being typical Ymir. 

 

She whispered one last breath into her phone, then hanged up with a sigh of boredom. 

 

"Is that the girl who left her number on the napkin for you?"

 

She shrugged, "Nah, it was another chick."

 

"Please be careful. I don't want you to get fired for flirting with the customers."

 

"Aww, would you miss me?" She tiredly joked.

 

"No, it would just look bad on me if you get fired since I recommended you."

 

"You little shit," She swore, flickering his ear, "Don't worry I'm sneaky. I never get caught."

 

"Mhm, that's why Krista calls you out when _she_ catches you, huh?"

 

She rubbed her cheek, "Krista is different. I just joke with her. She knows I'm not interested in her like that."

 

_Fatty fat liar._

 

"Oh, I think you'd be a cute couple."

 

She turned to him, "Shut it, sprinkles. I don't care if you know all those fancy moves, I'll still kick your ass."

 

"Ok, ok," He laughed, "It doesn't matter if you're with Krista or half the population of Trost. As long as you're happy, we're all happy."

 

She gagged, "You're such a nerd. Not even my own mother tells me that."

 

"It's late. My brain is fried from school and the rest of me is exhausted from work. Let me nerd you all I want."

 

"You lose brain cells when you're tired, huh?"

 

"Maybe just a little bit, yeah."

 

The rest of the car ride fell into a comforting silence between them with music faintly playing on the stereo. They could feel the sticky air clinging to their uniforms; it would be raining soon. Marco looked up at the night sky, quietly appreciating that it wasn't completely black. Today it was scattered with dark purple clouds and a couple of soundless, dancing lightning strikes.

 

Eventually he sees her familiar faded apartment name and takes a left towards the entrance. He had to admit, he didn't like his friend living there. The gates that were supposed to be for their protection was always broken and it seemed like every other week the complex would be on the news, revealing a new assault or drug scandal. As if to prove his concern of the area wasn't valid enough, they passed by a chalk outline of a body. He looked over at Ymir to see if she was as worried as he was, but she seemed unimpressed.

 

Marco had been to these apartments plenty of times to hang out with Bertholdt, but he's only been inside her place a couple of times. She didn't like having people over because her mom was an _annoying old bitch_ , as she liked to put it.

 

Marco felt compelled to reverse the car and take her away from such a sketchy place as he parked, but she'd kill him if he did that. She wasn't one to accept help.

 

"M'kay, home sweet hell hole," She opened her car door and hopped off, "Thanks. See ya, sprinkles."

 

"Sleep well, glitter." He waved.

 

With a slam of the door she turned and walked towards her building. Marco kept an eye out, making sure she made it inside safely. He couldn't trust this neighborhood, but then again she might be the most dangerous one there. She quirked her head towards his direction, mischievously smiling as she flipped him off before entering her house.

 

If there was one thing he loved more than being surrounded by people, it was being alone with his thoughts in his Tahoe - especially when the streets were empty on late weekday nights. The world would selfishly belong just to him and he loved it.

 

Droplets of cold rain hit his forearm without a warning from the thunder before he sees them splatter on his windshield. He doesn't close his window, in fact, he extends his arm out, as if he were about to fly, and thankfully there was no one around to judge the half feathered boy.

 

It was a bad habit, but the air held sentimental value to him. He loved it so much that he had a pair of wings tattooed on his back. Reiner's dad had made it for him his junior year of highschool, and when he asked him why he chose wings, he lied by giving him an insignificant reason. In reality, it was because when his parents first got divorced, his father drove all the way to Trost - for him and five year old Micah - to road trip to Jinae for their summer vacation.

 

He still remembers the way his dad put down all the windows, blasting music, and badly singing to it with all his might. He would always playfully drive with his knees on the freeway when there were no cars around, his arms raised to either side of him, looking like a spellbinding falcon. That had been the last time they were able to visit Jinae.

 

After that summer his dad suddenly became too busy with getting settled into his new apartment or too busy with work. Excuses piled up. He'd say it wasn't a good time, the car couldn't handle the drive, or he couldn't find a sitter to watch the dog. Eventually, the calls to see how they were doing also decreased. 

 

Thinking about it now, Marco could sympathize with his brother.

 

It had been two weeks since he received his mom's message during class. She wanted him to pick Micah up after school - causing him to miss work - because he got in a fight with a classmate. The students were assigned the task to present a written summary about someone they admired and why. When his brother revealed he looked up to his mom for working at a harsh factory place for their sake, one of the boys laughed at him for thinking his _mom_ was the strongest person he knew.

 

Apparently, Micah got in his face and repeated the words loudly. Then the kid made the fatal mistake to shove him back. His angry brother then crumbled up his paper and crammed it in the boy's mouth, slamming his head on the desk after. Marco thanked the principal a million times for only suspending him for a few days, but he wouldn't have been so lucky if his brother was a trouble maker. The ride home was spent in silence; Marco felt too clueless on how to scold his brother, but his mother sure didn't. 

 

Unfortunately, the boy's words festered in Micah's head as the days went by. He came to question where his father was more than he used to, growing more irritated that he even had to ask. They ended up calling him one late afternoon, but like always he was too busy to pick up the phone. Usually Micah would get over it, seeing how they were used to the rejection, but he was clearly still bothered by it.

 

The rain stopped kissing Marco's skin before he reached his tree infested home. The first thing he noticed when he stepped out of the car was how gloomy the house seemed, except for the warm glow coming from the living room window. He knew by heart his mother was probably sleeping on the couch; she only did this when something was stressing her out.

 

Before he entered, he quickly wiped his drenched arm the best he could on his pants - his mother didn't approve of his careless quirk to say the least.

 

"Marco." His mother puffed.

 

He gave her an apologetic smile for waking her with the sound of the shutting door, and walked towards her.

 

It had been many years now that Marco outgrew his petite mom, but he still couldn't get used the subtle worry it caused his heart when he saw her curled up in a small ball, trying to relax her tense expression on the corner of the sofa. It was an odd thing to see a parent appear so vulnerable.

 

"We're going to have to change this to your bedroom with all the sleeping you do in here." He spoke softly, afraid that if he were too loud, his breath would cause her to float away.

 

She straightened up and yawned, "I'm sorry, sweetie. I was up waiting for your brother, in case he got hungry."

 

"What happened?"

 

Her fatigue quickly turned to frustration. "We tried calling again, but your father didn't answer. Micah, of course, got upset and who could blame him? He started yelling then shut himself in his room hours ago, _without_ eating. Can you believe that?"

 

He seriously couldn't, that kid had a black hole for a stomach that probably led to a galaxy of a million starving Micah's. 

 

She continued, "He didn't even want to talk to me. Your father has some nerve doing this to my boys. I swear, he can be such a... such a... such a _testa di cazzo_!"

 

Marco held in his laugh, "Will you stop worrying if I try talking to him?"

 

"Yes, it really would, and I'm sorry for insulting your father in front of you."

 

He warmly smiled at her, "It's ok, I know he can be a dickhead. Now let's get you to bed before you start cursing me out too."

 

"I would never, but yes, it's time for the _both_ of us to rest."

 

Her long wavy hair - that was usually safe in a bun - curtained down past her shoulders as she stood up.

 

"Goodnight," She leaned over and pecked him on his head, "And stop rolling your windows down when the weather is bad. I don't want you to get pneumonia."

 

" _S-si ma_."

 

_Crap, she noticed._

 

He stayed back a few minutes after she soundlessly climbed the stairs, contemplating whether or not it'd be a good idea to skip a shower and just pass out on the couch, when the sudden creaking that came from Micah's floorboards jerked him up.

 

The walls that lead up to their rooms were filled with pictures of memories he was sorry he'd forgotten. His mother didn't have to bust out a photo album to embarrass him, all his guest has to do is climb the stairs of history to see his toothless smile and tiny round body that no longer belonged to the grown boy.

 

He ignored the last frame on the wall that had been of the four of them and turned the corner towards his brother's room, where he could hear the faint sound of music playing.

 

"Micah?" Marco lightly knocked.

 

The sound of a desk chair squeaked in relief as his brother got up. He quickly opened the door without saying a word and sat back down, angrily scribbling on a stack of papers.

 

"What are you doing up so late?"

 

His eyes didn't stray from the paper, "I'm writing dad a letter."

 

"A letter?"

 

"Yeah, a letter. If dad is too busy to talk on the phone, then I'll just write to him. He reads business mail all the time doesn't he? He has to read ours too. He has to know how we feel."

 

Marco can't help but feel his heart ache, "And how do we feel about it?"

 

"I don't know about _you_ , but I'm pissed off."

 

"Micah--"

 

"No, Marco. He's always giving us excuses for not being able to see us and when we offer to go there, he changes the subject and I'm tired of it. Why is it so hard for him?"

 

"You know he works all the time. He struggles just as much as we do."

 

"How? He only has to feed himself and a dog. He has a one bedroom apartment and there's nobody else there to use up all his money."

 

"It's not that simple."

 

"You know you don't believe that," His hand stopped moving, "Dad doesn't miss us."

 

Marco could see the pinkness on his brother's nose bloom to the rest of his face, indicating that the water works would soon start, but before that could happen he quickly swiveled Micah's chair to face him.

 

"How patient are you?" He suddenly asks.

 

"H-huh?"

 

"We can go see dad on Thanksgiving break. I'll take the whole week off. We'll go surprise him and you'll see that he really does miss us."

 

Micah frowns, "What about mom?"

 

"Don't worry, she'd want us to see him if it'd do us some good."

 

His brother looks down, making Marco feel unsure about his impulsive suggestion, but then his frustrated expression flickered to one of hope.

 

"Ok. I can wait a few more months, no problem."

 

Marco smiled, "Great, now get some sleep, it's way past your bedtime. "

 

"Yeah, yeah, yours too."

 

He leans up, ruffling his brother's hair, then delicately closes his door to let him rest.

 

It only took him a few long steps to reach his bedroom. The smell of earth and petrichor froliced out of his open window and into his lungs the second he stepped in, happy to have forgotten to close it. With a swift motion of his hand, his small square room was weakly illuminated by his long lamp, making the colors of the sheets and wall warm to look at.

 

The clothes on his skin were replaced by nothing but a towel around his hips as he unwillingly made his way towards the hallway bathroom. Unlike during the winter season, he was happy to have freezing water, since the AC wasn't working; the feeling was equivalent to drinking ice cold water after waking up with dry mouth.

 

_My paycheck is gonna look pathetic at the end of November. Maybe i should work everyday like Ymir instead of every other day to make up for it... No, I'd probably fall so behind in school and mom would kill me... We'll be ok. Maybe not financially, but Micah needs this, and that's what matters most. Mom will be at ease if he's happy.. and I'll be ok if they're both back to their normal selves._

The drumming of the water couldn't silence the words that Micah told him, _"Dad doesn't miss us"_. They trickled in his mind as rapidly as the cramped bathroom dripped with condensation. He scrubbed his body, ridding it from the doubt and worry that wanted to hold on to his wavering heart.

 

\----------------------------------

 

Rich sauces and sea critters drenched in butter infected the air. There were people talking above one another - sounding like a deranged chorus with silverware scraping plates, glass cups hitting tables, and coins falling to the floor serving as the orchestra. The number of people present was enough indication - not that it was needed - that it was indeed a Sunday well past noon at Red Lobster.

 

Marco's arm ached as he brought a tray full of empty glass cups to the back. Yesterday was one of the most demanding workouts he's had to endure; Coach Shadis didn't allow him any time to breath until he was satisfied with Marco's progression, and after a few punches to the liver, face, and jaw, the freckled boy was able to persevere. He even managed to get a compliment from the merciless coach - although it was along the lines of _"I'm surprised you didn't die"_ \- Marco still felt proud. But that pride was slowly leaking out of his pained body as he walked back to the floor to greet his last table.

 

The genuine smile he wore for his customers suddenly disappeared. He didn't have to see the face of the seated boy to know who's two-toned hair that belonged to. If that wasn't enough of a clue, Jean's happily talking mother was sitting across from him, flipping through the menu like if it was a children's book.

 

It took a lot to embarrass the freckled boy, but when it came to embarrassing _himself_ , Marco could internally die. He was still bothered by what happened the last time they spoke, cringing at the way he had asked Jean to be his friend as if they were four year old kids meeting for the first time at a park. His brain warned him not to push Jean into a friendship so quickly - or to even mention the word - since they barely started talking, but the comment slipped out of his mouth before he could stop himself. If he couldn't be friends with his only desk partner, his grades would surely suffer.

 

Before he got too lost in his thoughts, a familiar thin finger flicked him on the ear. He turns to see an evilly smiling Ymir shooing him towards Jean's table.

 

"Don't look too terrified of pony boy, you'll scare off the money bags."

 

"It's not like that with him."

 

She smirked, "Oh, I think you'd be a cute couple."

 

_I guess I deserved that one_

 

Ymir ran off before he could have any sort of negative reaction.

 

He shakes his head, takes in a deep breath, and saunters to their table, but before he could give them his greeting, Jean's mom gasps.

 

"Is that..? _Salut_ , Marco!"

 

"Hello, Ms. Kirstein. "

 

"Oh my, you sure have grown. The last time I saw you was at Jean's fourteenth birthday party. Why haven't you stopped by?"

 

_Because your son doesn't like me._

 

"Ah, I've been busy with work and stuff."

 

She narrowed her round eyes, "Is Jeanbo still giving you a hard time?"

 

"Mom!" Jean hissed.

 

"No, no. He's not."

 

"You know, I could tell him to be your friend. I'm a big influence in his life."

 

"Not since I was in diapers," He turned to face Marco, "And don't you have other stuff to do? Like, I dunno, take our order or serve other people."

 

_Ah, he's talking to me again._

 

"Yes, but luckily you're my last table before my shift is over so you guys can call me for anything you need. So, have you decided what drinks you'd like?"

 

"Yes," Smiled Ms. Kirstein, "I'd like a lemonade and a bottle of warm milk for my cry baby over there."

 

Jean's mouth gaped, "Oh my god."

 

"I'm joking, _mon cher_ , stop being dramatic, " She laughed, "Just get him a water for now."

 

Marco nods then walks back towards the kitchen. He can't help but smile at Jean's mom. He only ever met her a couple times, but remembered how funny she could be. The few times he was around her, she never failed to embarrass her son.

 

Throughout their meal, Ms. Kirstein kept calling for Marco, asking him for the smallest things. She needed a different straw because her's had a hole, a new fork because that one had a weird water spot on it, and her pasta needed to be reheated because it just absolutely had to be warm for her to eat it all. After every request, she'd ask him more about his life. She even managed to squeeze some of her hobbies in there too.

 

Every now and then he'd sneak a peek at Jean, but his blushing face would always be intensely focused on anything other than them. Marco wanted to sympathize with him, but his mother was too adorable to stop. In fact, he was happy Ms. Kirstein hadn't completely forgotten about him. If she was this easy to get along with, then he held hope that Jean would soon come around.

 

"....So even though I work at night and sleep during the day, I still find time to garden in my backyard since it's right at home. We have so many veggies, don't we?"

 

Jean ignored her, shoving his last piece of broccoli into his mouth.

 

"Is that so?" Marco asked as he refilled her drink for the third time.

 

" _Oui_! And I'd love to grow some flowers inside, but i can't find the time to go shopping for pots. I would send Jean, but he's too shy to shop for girly stuff like that."

 

" _Mom_!"

 

Before he could laugh at Jean's whine, Marco politely excused himself to help a fellow waitress. He couldn't help but giggle to himself at how much their mother's seemed alike. His own loved to question his friends about their lives and how their families were doing. He admired how radiant they were. They were like lighthouses; their glow would always be there if their sons ever came close to crashing down with the weight of the world.

 

Marco would've crashed long ago if he didn't have such an understanding parent. When he explained his plan to visit their dad in November, she instantly agreed, saying there would be plenty of food when they returned since his father was a shit cook.

 

Suddenly a chill went down Marco's back. He turned to look at Jean's table, and sure enough he was twisted in his seat, looking at him.

 

_I guess he needs something._

 

He finished dropping of the boxes at the satisfied table with a smile and headed towards the impatient grump. His mother was at the register box, paying for their meal and chatting away with the cashier.

 

Marco had to admit that he was a little worried about what the humiliated boy wanted with him. He probably wanted to yell at him for being his waiter, even though he had no control over that, fate was at fault. Marco braced himself for impact.

 

"Yes, what else can I get you?"

 

"I want more biscuits. For free."

 

Marco's eyebrows went up, "For free?"

 

"Yeah, you owe me. I want four - no - I want _seven_."

 

"Sure," He smiled, "I'll put them in a baggie for you."

 

Although the restaurant does say it's unlimited biscuits, there actually was a limit. They were going to have to come out of his pocket, but luckily they were cheap. Jean might not be such a hard person if this is all he wanted in return for his lost pride rather than an actual meal.

 

When he returned to the floor with ten biscuits - just to earn some friendship points - Jean and his mom were waiting for him at the entrance. 

 

"It was nice seeing you again, darling. Don't hesitate to stop by whenever you want. The two of us can keep each other company since Jeanbo doesn't want to." She joked.

 

"Of course, I'll be glad to."

 

Jean grabbed the bag, "Hey mom, I'll meet you in the car. I need to have a word with my _friend_."

 

"Be nice Jean," She turned to Marco, "Have a good evening, _chéri_."

 

"B-bye Ms. Kirstein."

 

She grinned and walked away. The boys quietly watched her disappear out the glass door. He probably should have felt some concern for the sudden privacy Jean wanted, but he knew he wouldn't try anything rash - since they were in public _and_ he had an armful of bread. The freckled boy looked down to see Jean giving him his signature scowl.

 

"Yes?" Marco asked.

 

"My mom didn't mean some of the things she said, ok? You can't come over whenever you want."

 

He faked disappointment, "That's too bad. I take pottery and I was already planning on making her a nice little pot for her flowers."

 

"W-well we don't want your shitty pot."

 

_You did at Sasha's bonfire_

 

"Alright, alright I know your mom was just being polite. Besides, I want to see you just as much as you want to see me."

 

Jean fumed, "Well too bad because from now on you'll be seeing me around here more often! These buns were just the tip of the iceberg. Be prepared to have me as a regular, freckles."

 

Usually Marco's joke weren't as harsh, but he couldn't help the amusement he felt when he saw Jean's reactions. He was happy to have found that the boy's weakness was his dignity.

 

"Ok, it's a promise."

 

He laughed at Jean's frustrated gurgle and watched him head out the door. 

 

_What did I just get myself into?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out to be such a parent-y chapter. It wasn't as happy as i wanted it to be BUT now we can get to the good stuff *cracks fingers* Jeanbo prepare your feels  
> ps idk jack shit about how the restaurant life works


	5. Pulsing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleepovers are for all ages. Girl talk is v important. Annie is too good for her weight class. And firsttime drinkers never know their limit.

If fear could be manipulated, there'd be no limits to what a person could do. Someone who is afraid to explore dark caves could easily lead an expedition; someone who wants to skydive with their group of friends could finally give in and feel the rush of adrenaline; someone who's afraid of the ocean could finally dive and view the creatures of the blue. But fear is real, it heightens our senses to keep us alive.

 

Jean could hear the pounding of his heart in his ears. He didn't know if the heaps of blankets piled on him would keep him hidden, and he was beginning to feel far too hot, but he didn't dare move a muscle. The dark closet he was in was slightly illuminated by the light from the room - which made it all that easier to see the shadow of footsteps that stopped in front of the door. He held in his breath, afraid that soon he'd be caught. He closed the peep hole he made with the cover and prayed they'd leave, but he had no such luck.

 

The door creaked as it slowly opened. He could _feel_ the smile through their heavy breathing. The sound of their socks rubbing against the floor grew closer and closer, but then stopped. Jean knew he'd been caught, but he wouldn't go down without a fight - or at least without scaring them.

 

"BOO!" He yelled as he launched himself up from the mountain of fabric.

 

The boy yelped in surprise, "I found Jean again!"

 

He booped Jean on the head and ran away laughing.

 

Hide and seek was definitely one of his least favorite games to play when he was a child, and it hurt his pride to know he still sucked at it. It felt better to tell himself he was letting the four and six year old kids win so they wouldn't go crying to Bertholdt.

 

Soccer practice was over, but he didn't want to go home to an empty house. He couldn't stand the silence. Thankfully, Bertholdt was free during this time - well sort of. He had been non stop cleaning since they first arrived to his apartment, not that Jean wasn't used to it by now - but it made him feel useless, so he babysat his little brother's while Bert did laundry and cleaned the kitchen.

 

Jean came out of the closet, folding the mess he had made, and walked out of Bert's room. He was reloading the washer while his brother's were whispering to each other on the sofa, giving him pity looks.

 

"We don't want to play anymore." Announced the youngest when he sat next to them.

 

"Yeah, it's no fun when you get caught so easy."

 

Jean mumbled, "Well if you lived in a mansion you'd never see me again."

 

"Instead, let's play with toys. Wait right here."

 

He watched them disappear to their parents room.

 

"Sorry, I know they're pretty energetic."

 

"It's cool. This is the closest I can get to knowing what it's like to have siblings. I bet it never gets lonely here."

 

Bert smiled, "Yeah, I guess it doesn't. But this is nothing compared to Sasha's place. Even though she's an only child, she has her uncles, aunts and cousins living there."

 

"She said she only survives because of all the traveling they do. Being a family of chefs has it's perks."

 

"Definitely. She gets to stay home in that big house with the best food to keep her company when they leave."

 

"I think I'd go crazy if she were my sister. Mika and Annie, too. They fight like siblings then pretend nothing ever happens."

 

Bert sighed, "I think their relationship is a little more complicated than that... kinda like you and Marco."

 

"There's nothing complicated between our relationship. I don't like him and he probably doesn't like me."

 

"Jean, I think you're over thinking things. Marco--"

 

"Jeeeeaaaaan! Are you still there?"

 

The two of them came happily running with their toys in their hands, which wasn't many since Bertholdt's parents were firm when it came to doing anything but studying. 

 

"Here, you can play the watergun and I'll be the fish, but the gun doesn't actually have any water 'cause mom'll get mad."

 

"That's cool, I can deal with it. I'll just pretend it's a real gun," He pointed the plastic to the boy's toy, "And it looks like I'm having tuna for dinner. POW! POW! POW!"

 

"That is _not_ how you play with children." Laughed Bertholdt. 

 

He allowed the kids to distract him away from Bert's unfinished sentence. They cried with injustice as Jean pretended to shoot the rest of their toys - but they didn't really mind. Bertholdt usually didn't have much time to play with his brothers. His parents worked late, which meant he was in charge of cooking, cleaning, making sure the kids did their homework, and remembering to do his own. Jean knew the Fubar household was strict, but Bertholdt said it was for their own good. He often wondered how good it could actually be if it was robbing his friend's brothers of their childhood like it did to his.

 

It was for those very same mannerisms that kept Bert from coming out to his parents. They were hard on their children, so it wasn't easy to tell if they'd accept their son. They never spoke out on the subject, and because of their lack of opinion it was difficult to tell how they'd react, which scared the boy. Jean remembers the first time he slept over his house, his mother had straight out asked him if he was gay. It had never been a secret to anyone, so he told her the truth, but she made no comment.

 

The boys were able to play a little while longer before they had to do their school work. He knew the childish laughter that came out if the children would eventually come to a stop, and he hated it. But the setting sun indicated it was time for him to go and he didn't want to over welcome his stay. He knew his parents would (politely but with an attitude) tell him to leave once they got home anyways.

 

Bertholdt was finishing up dinner when Jean stretched himself out from the couch, yawning to let his friend know he was heading out soon. He didn't want to go yet since being home alone was, well, lonely.

 

"You're not staying for dinner?"

 

Jean slipped on his shoes, "Nah, I gotta get some homework done too."

 

_Yeah right._

 

Bert wiped his hands on his pants, "So, um, are you going to the match tomorrow?"

 

"You mean Annie's and Marco's? I dunno. Sash is probably gonna drag me along since everyone else is going. Why?"

 

"I was just wondering. I don't think I'll be able to make it, but I'll try to sneak out to the party after everyone is asleep here."

 

"I feel ya. I don't like watching fights either."

 

"Y-yeah, I hate them."

 

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow at school."

 

He waved and shut the door after his friend told him to make it safe to his car. Luckily, no one was trying to break in like last time.

 

_What the fuck am I gonna do now?_

 

It had been many days now that Jean had been visiting Marco's workplace and usually it was after he left one of his friend's house. He spent as much time away from home as possible, and since the restaurant closed at ten on weekdays, it allowed him plenty of time to waste.

 

The embarrassment he endured weeks ago still sat in the back of his mind, but the face Marco would make when he saw Jean quickly made him forget. At first, he seemed happy - as if Jean was trying to put in effort to better their relationship - but he soon came to realize that was not the case.

 

Jean regretted losing his temper when the freckled boy said he didn't want to see him either, and it was too late to take it back. All he had left was to keep hold of his promise and show Marco he was true to his word. He accepted that avoiding Marco was no longer an option, in or outside of school. This time it wouldn't be like elementary or middle school; there would be no body shaming or physical contact involved. There was only ignoring him during class and annoying customer acts to be played after,

 

Unfortunately, it was Thursday, so Marco wasn't at work. He contemplated whether or not Ymir would tolerate his stupidity, but decided against finding out.

 

The annoying breeze tickled his face as he drove back home. His car leaked water from the passenger side whenever the A/C was on, so he had no choice but to drive with his windows down. The stench that infected his Jetta - thanks to his gym bag and the heat - reminded him of why he hated summer. Actually, he pretty much hated all the seasons. People became too giddy during winter, spring never failed to bring out his allergies, summer was too fucking hot, making the smells that were usually faint during winter reek, and fall - fucking fall - was soccer season.

 

It'd be an understatement to say the team was a laughing stock. No matter how much passion and determination Eren put in, or how focused and invested Bertholdt was, or how motivated and ready Jean felt, the whole damn team still sucked. It was rare for them to even play more than two games. The boys often fought within the team, which lead to a few losses, but the main reason was because they were against bigger, better schools. Jean loved to complain about the unfairness, but he would still give it his all.

 

In a way, it worked out that they were bad. It allowed them to attend Sasha and Connie's school plays. Their performances were just as bad as his team's, but in their case, it worked out. The audience would leave laughing rather than booing.

 

_Speak of the devil_

 

He pulled into his surprisingly not-so-empty driveway, next to the irritating yellow Bug that belonged to the loud girl. She was smiling at him like a dork, leaning on the hood of her car.

 

"What'cha doin'?" He asked as he got out.

 

"The fam is at another convention."

 

She didn't have to say any more. Whenever Connie was too busy to entertain her - which was rare - she would haul her bags over at his house to ease her hyper mind. Some days it was on weekends, but there were times where she became desperate enough to stay over on school days. He didn't mind at all. If there was one way to get a grumpy Jean to lighten up, it was to initiate a sleepover. He couldn't quite remember when exactly she started escaping to his house, but he never complained. His house was parent-free all the time anyways.

 

"How long you staying this time?"

 

"Eh, who knows. Don't tell me you're sick of seeing this gorgeous face?" She fluttered her eyelashes at him.

 

"Well, I'm gay so... "

 

"So? You can still think I'm pretty."

 

"True. But I don't want to give you the satisfaction of hearing me say that, Ms. Potato Head."

 

She gasped, "Do I really look like a potato?"

 

He laughed without responding.

 

"Jean! Tell me I'm pretty!"

 

She chased him inside, almost falling as she stumbled to take off her shoes. Too bad for her, she couldn't catch up to the fit boy.

 

Her frown quickly perked up when Jean apologized with the feast his mother left in the oven. He couldn't finish eating one plate while he watched Sasha inhale her third serving. The other half of his friends that had lunch with her must be brave to have to witness how savage she was.

 

They talked about nothing in particular, like friends usually do. It was meaningless conversation since neither would remember any of it years from now, but at the same time it was special because it'd be added to the list of memories where they were together.

 

Besides. It didn't matter if they were talking about stupid topics, they both knew intimate subjects have to be shared during the night. He enjoyed how people suddenly felt more comfortable opening up at the end of the day. It was as if they were so tired of being one person to the sun, that they had to deflate by puking out their feelings to the moon. Whether it was by texting someone close to them, or speaking to a friend in person, or even diving into their own minds, the blackness was a therapist.

 

After irritatingly washing their dishes - without any help - they retreated to his room. His laptop laid on his pillow like a god while they quarrelled on his top bunk over which shitty show to watch on Netflix. Eventually they came to a compromise, flopped on their bellies, and shut up.

 

He didn't know how much time passed, but he was aware that it was late. They were both fighting their sleep and unfortunately Sasha was losing. The palm on her chin was tilting down as her eyes struggled to stay open. He took it as a sign to close the computer and toss it to the ends of their feet.

 

"I hope you're not planning on sleeping up here with me."

 

She groaned, "Just sleep on the bottom bunk."

 

"But I like being on top."

 

"Huh," she smirked with closed eyes, "I always figured you were a bottom."

 

He shoved her head in the pillow and shuffled towards the ladder.

 

"No, I'm kidding. Lay with me for a while, let's talk."

 

He rolled his eyes, but obeyed his friend. They laid face to face with arms tucked under the pillow. She opened her eyes and frowned.

 

"Don't laugh, OK?"

 

"I can't promise that."

 

"Ok, that's good enough for me. Here goes... do I really look like a potato?"

 

He laughed, "No. You don't look like a potato, Sash."

 

"Promise? I was just worried because--"

 

"Don't be. Connie would still hang out with you even if you were a boiled vegetable. In fact, he'd probably enjoy being around you more if you were."

 

She blushed, "Oh my god. Am I that obvious?"

 

"About what?"

 

"That I like... him?"

 

Jean's eyes widened, "You like Connie?!"

 

She sat up fully awake now, "I thought you knew?!"

 

"No!... Holy shit, you like Connie."

 

"You are so dense! Why do you think I always mentioned him during our girl talks?"

 

"I dunno! I thought best friends just naturally liked talking about each other and how nice and cute they are!"

 

"Well, yeah, he's still my best friend, but ugh. No, Jean."

 

He sat up with her, "So, uh, does he know? Or... ?"

 

"No, well I don't know. I don't try to hide it, but I think he thinks like you. He takes it all as me being friendly."

 

"Honestly I don't think anyone else notices it either. You two have been stuck to each other since we met you in middle school. It was never weird seeing you so close."

 

"So I have to actually tell him my feelings?"

 

"Yes. But don't take my word for it because I'm not the right person for this shit. You have my support on your journey of love, though."

 

"Ew, don't go quoting any of your mango stuff to me." She finally smiled.

 

"It's manga, not mango, and fine. But wow, I can't believe you like Connie."

 

She grabbed the pillow and smacked him, "Just wait until you start crushing on someone. I'll embarrass you more than your own mother."

 

_You're so not at that level yet._

 

He didn't have the energy to tell her he has had many crushes before. None ever developed further than a far away stalkerish type deal on social media, but he has had enough relationships to know his way around. It wasn't enough to give the girl advice though; he could tell that her feelings expanded more than just _crushing_ on Connie. If he remembered correctly, she's been talking about him for over a year now. Jean didn't even try to hide the guilt he felt for being so ignorant.

 

After a few more minutes of "I can't believe it" and "Get over it, loser", the top bunk was given to Sasha - it was the least he could do. Jean dizzyingly turned off the lights and jumped into the cold bed underneath his favorite. The smell of abandonment filled his nose as his eyes closed and his head flooded with the fact that was was not only lonely at home, but in romance too.

 

It wasn't something he needed, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't want it sometimes. It was fulfilling enough to have a group of friends, which is why he could go for so long without having a partner, but there were periods of times when he ached for lips to kiss, a hand to hold, and a belly to wrap an arm around. His longest relationship ended after five months, due to personalities clashing too often, so the idea of actually having to put effort into a serious relationships turned him off just as quickly as he wished for it.

 

His eyes slowly shut with a panicking thought wrapping itself around his brain.

 

_But what if I end up alone?_

 

\------------------------------

 

The ugly metal chair in front of Jean was screeching with the sudden jerk from its owner. Everyone was standing now, yelling and swearing at the fighters in the ring. Jean and his friends were also on their feet, shouting motivational words at the boy who was apparently getting his ass handed to him, but Jean wasn't really listening or watching. He couldn't. 

 

Sasha came home with him after school ended, but she mentioned she wasn't going to sleepover again. Her reason for coming with him was to make sure he'd be at Annie and Marco's competition. No matter how many times he refused to go, she'd lecture him about how Annie was also his friend and he should go for her if not for Marco. He got tired of hearing her talk, so he agreed to go as support, but they both knew damn well that she wouldn't care if they'd gone or not.

 

They met up with everyone at the gym where it was held - since it was a friendly members only fight - and quickly flagged the fighters down before they went into prep. Annie seemed confident as usual, but Marco, on the other hand, was a nervous mess. He kept rubbing his face and laughing at the smallest things. When a coach with a microphone ordered all the contestants to get ready, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

 

After they wished them luck, Jean looked around to find Bert, but it seemed as though he really wasn't able to make it. If he had been there they could've distracted each other from the spectacle he was avoiding to witness. Not only was Bertholdt not there, but neither were Reiner and Ymir - who was probably at work.

 

Now Jean was left to distract himself. If he looked up to see Marco getting punched and pushed around, there'd be no telling what he'd feel. He didn't try ditching the event for shallow reasons. He avoided it because he knew his mind would flood with self-hating thoughts.

 

_Did people beat him like this because of what I started? He knew how to fight, but what did he do when he was outnumbered? Why can't I just ask him and then let him punch me in the face?_

 

His gaze from the gray chair shifted to the hand that was sweetly holding on to his now. Krista gave him a confused look, but her smile said "Everything is OK". She doesn't know, but it didn't matter. He tried not to think of what type of face he must be making and smiled back a thank you. There was no point in worrying his friends over his internal conflicts. The little bit of self control he had was put into turning his head towards the ring, where he could now see a sweaty, bleeding Marco.

 

Jean could see his chest huffing and puffing from exhaustion, but the boy still jumped around the ring with his arms raised in front of his face for protection. The cut on his eyebrow was dripping with blood down to his jaw and onto the floor. The two competitors were circling each other like birds of prey, and seeing the beautiful wings on Marco's back that almost extended past his forearms made it that much more realistic.

 

He couldn't help the shudder that ran through his spine as the remorse hit him as hard as the punch that Marco received on his kidney. Jean was the only one who wasn't cheering for him, and that made him feel even worse. If he couldn't confront his demons, he could at least do as little as yell a few words of encouragement. 

 

With a little squeeze to Krista's hand, he let go. He cupped them to his mouth and yelled as hard as he could to Marco, hoping he'd be able to hear him over the roaring waves of people.

 

"Keep going! C'mon, you're the Freckled Jesus! You can totally kick his ass!"

 

Sasha nudged his ribs, "Chant with us!"

 

At some point they had all been yelling his name in perfect harmony, which he failed to notice until now. He looked down the row to see the group ridiculously screaming. Armin was determinately clapping while he yelled, Connie and Eren had fists in the air, and Sasha was waving her arms like a madwoman. Mikasa looked like a mother who was angry that her little boy was getting bruised up by some kid, but Jean didn't dare laugh at her. Instead, he focused back on Marco and bellowed out his name until his voice went hoarse.

 

The voices of his friends reached him. Jean could tell with the soft smile that twitched on his lips that he was hearing _all_ of their cries.

 

There wasn't a knockout, but Marco didn't win. The other guy landed way more punches than he had, so the coaches gave him the victory. The two disappeared as the next fighters got up the ring. They had to sit through many more matches - which was over twenty minutes long - before they could get to Annie's.

 

She was against an older, much more masculine man, but of course she was unfazed. Her eyes never left her opponent's - not even when she dodged his enormous hand or when she shot him in the liver with her own. It wasn't enough to completely affect him, but it was obvious that it inflicted pain.

 

Two minutes was all it took for Annie's glove to reach his chin. His arms dropped down to his sides and his body went down like a sack of flour. The crowd went wild - especially her dad - who was at her corner cursing words of pride at his daughter's talent.

 

"We're leaving to my place!" Announced Sasha, who was looking down at her phone.

 

Before he could ask her any questions, she pushed him and Krista towards the exit, with the rest following behind.

 

Marco was already outside in his normal clothes. His eyebrow had a white strip to stop the bleeding, but the redness around it was as clear as the big smile on his stupid face. When the boys made eye contact, Jean could practically hear the "I heard you" face he was giving him. Jean couldn't help the smirk that popped out of his lips, and thankfully the gang bombarded Marco with praise before he could call him out on it.

 

They teased him about celebrating his loss while walking to the parking lot. Annie joined them minutes later, but they didn't have time to congratulate her. She ordered everyone to the awaiting party so she could get fucked up.

 

Jean jumped into Sasha's ugly car, since they carpooled, and ignored the mischievous look she kept shooting at him. He knew she wanted to say something about his participation in calling out Marco's name, but thankfully her mouth stayed shut. Instead she spoke about how Bertholdt, Reiner, and Ymir were at her place with booze. They didn't usually drink, but since Marco was busy with boxing, he didn't have time to remember about the weed - not that they were complaining about their methods of being above the influence.

 

The blasting music could be heard before they even opened the door. Ymir's red face was the first to greet them, her solo cup was held tightly in her hand, but her hair was swinging all over the place.

 

"You're drunk already?" Krista asked as she walked up to her.

 

Ymir smiled, "Mmm-hmm. Wansum?"

 

He rolled his eyes and moved towards the kitchen where a few dozen more cups were set up on the island. Knowing Reiner and Ymir, the drinks were probably too strong. He told himself not to drink any since he'd probably have to babysit a few of them - with the help of Krista and Armin - the two that never drank. Today he didn't feel like getting shit-faced, so he made his way to the fridge for some five star food.

 

"Marco, drink this, it'll make your face feel better."

 

He could hear Sasha and Marco's footsteps hitting the tile floors behind him.

 

"More like he won't be able to feel his face." Jean snorted.

 

"Potato, tomato."

 

He pulled out a plate stacked with gourmet sandwiches and plopped down on a stool, "That's not how the saying goes, numbnuts."

 

"Whatever. Just stop him before he gets alcohol poisoning. It's his first time."

 

"Wha--"

 

"I'm gonna go play some tequila pong with Connie!"

 

She smiled and skipped away to the backyard, leaving Jean open mouthed and irritated. 

 

Marco cleared his throat, "You don't have to babysit me."

 

"You've never had one of Ymir's drinks. Trust me, you're going to need someone to watch over you... even if it is a pain."

 

"You're being really nice today."

 

Jean looked away, "Don't take it personally."

 

Marco shrugged his shoulders and brought the cup to his lips. Without even breathing he chugged the whole thing down. The freckles on his neck bobbed along with his Adam's apple until he sipped down every last drop.

 

"Holy shit. That was a bad idea, Bott."

 

He laughed and reached for another one. It was odd seeing Marco acting so reckless. He felt uncomfortable being alone with him, but the sudden worry that overcame him glued his butt to the chair. Whether Marco wanted to forget his lost fight or if his face was really hurting that bad, it was clear that he was drinking to get wasted.

 

Half an hour later and Eren decided to bust out the annoying strobe lights Sasha kept in the basement. Everyone came in and out of the kitchen - that was thankfully dimly lit by the stove light and away from the dark living room filled with drunks - to grab more drinks. Mikasa and Annie came to talk to them for a while about the match, but soon left after. There was no sign that Marco wanted to leave the area, so that's where Jean stayed. He was reaching for his third cup when his arm accidentally knocked down the glass jar that contained cookie crumbs.

 

The noise startled Jean into action. He jumped up to check if Marco was OK, but he was just sitting there looking down at the mess. His flushed face made no expression whatsoever.

 

"Stay right there." Jean ordered.

 

He bolted outside where Sasha was still playing. She was shaking with so much laughter that the ping-pong ball didn't even make it anywhere near Connie's side. Her pony tail slapped Jean in the face when he called out her name.

 

"Sash!"

 

"Yo!"

 

"Where do you keep your broom and dust pan? Marco broke something."

 

She blinked, "Wha? It's in the closet. You should know this by now, Jeanbo! Marco knows, just ask 'em if you get lost."

 

He ran back inside - without even making fun of her stupid advice - to make sure the saint wasn't feeling too guilty for breaking something and taking it upon his drunken self to clean up. But of course that's exactly what he was doing when Jean entered the kitchen again.

 

Marco was kneeling on the floor with the dust pan full of glass. The broom was stiffly moving the remaining crumbs towards the plastic while he struggled to stay upright. His head was faced down, hair hiding his face, but Jean could tell something was wrong with how his shoulders were trembling.

 

"Hey, man. You ok?" Jean carefully asked.

 

A sob escaped the boy's lips.

 

"Marco?"

 

He finally snapped his head up at the sound of his name. His eyes were wide and shiny with tears that spilled down like a river. The sorrowful frown he wore made Jean's heart break as he inched closer.

 

"I-I can't do it." Marco cried.

 

"Do what?"

 

He took in a deep breath to steady his voice, but the quiver on his chin gave him away, letting another sob escape.

 

"It doesn't matter how muh-much I try. There's still a strip of crumbs that I can't get. Look!"

 

Marco sweeped the trash to the dust pan again, then backed up a little to show Jean the thin line of dirt that wouldn't go in. He looked up at him, as if he were waiting for him to scold him, but all Jean could do was laugh. He closed the gap between them, grabbing the plastic and throwing the trash away.

 

_He's a crying drunk. Who would've guessed it?_

 

He inspected Marco again to make sure he was OK, but noticed he had a few cuts on his fingers. Without thinking about it, he pulled him up by the arm and lead him to the upstairs bathroom where Sasha kept her first aid kit. The drunk boy stayed quiet as Jean sat him down on the toilet seat while he looked for the band aids.

 

His hands cautiously cleaned the blood out of Marco's fingers - avoiding eye contact the entire time. The Spongebob Squarepants bandaids looked wrong on his rough hands, but Marco seemed to like them. He wiggled his fingers in front of his face, then showed it to the scowling boy.

 

"Better?" Jean asked.

 

"Mm. Thanks, man."

 

Nothing could have prepared him for the tremendous bear hug Marco suddenly gave him. His arms tightly wrapped under Jean's armpits, causing his head to smash against his hard chest that smelled strongly of old spice and sweat. He sat up from the toilet, slightly lifting Jean from the ground, but then quickly put him back down before he could kick him in protest. Marco released him, patted his shoulders, then happily walked out - leaving Jean confused and flustered.

 

This time he was the one who had to sit down. He tried to ignore the unwanted flutter he felt in his gut, but the blush from his cheeks wouldn't subside and his heart beat was pulsing as fast as the flashing lights that were downstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No flashback today TvT but that's bc the most important one is coming on his next chapter.  
> Can i just say thank you for all the kudos and comments? Because damn, i wasn't expecting any tbh. Thank you guys so much! I really fucking appreciate it!


	6. Crepuscular

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some friends are just young parents. Even if a house's decor doesn't match with the house, they still look cute for trying. Fuck rude people. Sometimes faces resemble the sky.

A wonderful thing about waking up is that sometimes people forget where the hell they are, and sometimes other people are lucky enough to witness them fart or mumble nonsense in the process of awakening. Fortunately for Marco, no one was around to find him cuddling with Reiner's rough foot.

 

The prickling hairs that stabbed his arms and cheek woke him up quicker than any alarm could ever do. At first he thought he had _slept_ with someone, but was relieved that that was not the case. He did, however, regret the amount of drinking he had done last night. His head wasn't able to keep up with the sudden movement he did as he pushed Reiner's cactus of a leg away from himself, his head pounding along with his racing heart. As if to make matters worse, the cut on his eyebrow and fingers were stinging from the loss of the pain-numbing liquid.

 

If he had known he wouldn't completely forget the events that happened the day before, he wouldn't have even drank anything. Marco clearly remembers losing the match - which he had expected - and embarrassing himself all night long. He could see the cringe worthy images playing in his mind and how he couldn't, for the life of him, control himself to stop being a dork. His soul almost escaped his body as he thought of the way he danced in front of the strobe lights with Eren - then crying about how pretty they sparkled, or the way he threw up on Sasha's grass after taking a shot of tequila and sobbing out apologies, he couldn't forget stupidly crying about not being able to pick up the glass he broke after accidentally knocking down an empty cookie jar, and worst of all, the hug he gave Jean after he put on the Spongebob goddamn Squarepants band aids on his torn fingers.

 

There was no doubt that he had crossed the thick line that existed between them, and being drunk was no excuse for his actions - he was going to apologize for making him feel uncomfortable. He wished he could forget the way Jean's face quickly went bright pink with what must have been horror and anger, but all his drunken self could do was smile and wobble away as if he had just given him a thousand dollars, rather than a smelly embrace. He just wanted to show him how thankful he was for taking care of him. Whenever Marco thought their relationship was making progress, he'd always manage to screw things up. His lack of self control was pitiful, but it motivated him to fix the situation, which he planned to do later.

 

He slowly got up from the carpet floor and smiled at how messed up his friends looked scattered throughout the living room. Reiner and Bertholdt were cuddled up in front of the sofa - which was half occupied by Eren. The other side held Mikasa, whose hand was hanging down, slightly touching Annie's forehead below her. He tried not to step on the trio that were near the coffee table. Ymir looked angry in her sleep while Connie and Sasha were happily dozing on either side of her, snuggling on to each one of her arms like children.

 

_Where are the rest of them? I swear we had more children._

 

The reply came in the shape of whispering voices coming from the kitchen, followed by the sweet smell of banana pancakes. He wobbled his way towards their direction as the scent pulled him by the nose. He hadn't expected to be so hungry, or so damn thirsty, after all the drinking he did, but he was glad. He'd rather be starving instead of puking.

 

His bare feet stuck to the cold tiles as he stepped into the bright kitchen. Armin and Krista were happily cooking different things without disturbing one another while Jean sat on the island counter watching. His back was facing him, but this would be the first time he'd seen Jean so _calm_. His shoulders weren't stiff and he could see by the motion of his body that he was kicking his feet to the light music playing on his phone. Marco hesitatingly scooted closer to them, afraid to break their peaceful world. He wanted to admire it a little longer, but Krista quickly spotted him.

 

"Hey, sleepy head," She carefully whispered, "Are you hungry?"

 

He sheepishly smiled, "Very."

 

"Come, sit. Armin is making pancakes, fruit salad, and bacon. I'm whipping up some scrambled eggs, sausage, and hashbrowns. There's a big pot of coffee over there and if you feel like you're going to be sick, we've got Pepto and water bottles in the fridge."

 

"You guys are so prepared."

 

Armin turned away from the stove, "Yeah, we're used to it. Before you started hanging out more often, these guys would mostly drink during every get together."

 

Jean jumped down from the counter to sit in one of the stools. He paid no mind to Marco as he sat next to him. The air around him was guarded, but Marco couldn't detect any anger that he might have towards him. If he was mad, he was doing a good job at hiding it. He then learned that the scowl on Jean's face was just his default expression, so it made him feel a bit more confident to later apologize for last night - in a more private place.

 

"Do you guys need any help?" Marco asked.

 

He could hear Jean scoff beside him, "Don't bother. If Home Economics had captains, these guys would be it. One step in their kitchen and you're dead meat... which will later be used for dinner."

 

"Th-that's not true," Krista blushed, "We just like cooking. And who knows what would happen if we let all of you make your own food while dealing with a hangover."

 

"It wasn't pretty the first time we figured that out." Armin stated with a dead look in his eyes.

 

Marco was kind of glad he had been busy with two jobs when the two created their little system to avoid whatever had happened in the past. He figured it probably involved a lot of throw up and wasted food.

 

"Kristaaa!"

 

Ymir barged into the kitchen, startling all four of them as she broke their hushed conversation with her whine. Her voice sounded like a firetruck blaring its horn right next to Marco's ear, causing him to hold on to his head and shut his eyes as tight as he could, as if that would help. He heard Krista's demanding _shhh_ and the way her tiny feet rushed to the freckled girl.

 

"Not so loud, you'll wake the others."

 

"But my head hurts!"

 

"You were already drunk when we got there, so you've got no one but yourself to blame."

 

Ymir whimpered, "Jesus, why did I drink so much? It's pissing me off!". She rubbed her head with too much force.

 

"Just calm down--"

 

"This isn't fair! _Dammit_!"

 

"You're hurting yourself with the sound of your own voice." Jean laughed.

 

"Shut it, horseface! _Gah_!" She cringed.

 

"Told ya."

 

"I'll tell your mother!"

 

"Who the flying _fuck_ is yelling so early in the morning!" Eren cried as he entered. His eyes were bloodshot.

 

Armin sighed without turning away from the stove, "Actually it's noon."

 

"Shut up, Jaeger." Ymir ordered. "God, you're always screaming."

 

" _Me_?", He darkly chuckled, "You're the one who's always screaming!"

 

"Are you even listening to the sound of your shitty voice?"

 

"Please stop fighting." Krista hopelessly begged.

 

"Tell _him_! My head hurts like a bitch!"

 

Eren winced, "So does fucking mine! That's why I told you to be quiet!"

 

"You didn't tell me to be quiet, you asked who was yelling, moron! And this is the only way I can deal with it!"

 

"Oh, I'm the moron? If that's the case then you must have the brain of a sack of potatoes!"

 

"Better than being a being a brainless nutsack like you!"

 

At this point, Marco's brain has died and safely made it to the pearly white gates of heaven to rest in peace. Unfortunately, the rest of him was still trapped listening to the endless bickering between two stubborn people. The cold surface of the island did nothing to soothe the pounding in his head. All he could do was focus on Jean's soft laughter beside him that perfectly mixed with the instrumental music gently playing from his phone, but it was hard tuning out the voices that echoed in the room. He almost felt compelled to throw himself out the window, but thankfully a grumpy and irritated Reiner stomped in.

 

His blond hair was sticking out of every direction imaginable. The darkness that pooled under his blue eyes made the enraged glower on his sickly face all that more intimidating. Without breaking eye contact with the duo, he bashed Eren and Ymir's head together, then ever so quietly whispered into their ears, "Shut the fuck up before I staple your mouths to your assholes", and left.

 

Marco didn't know whether he should be impressed by how Reiner was able to silence the hard headed kids or terrified at the fact that he can flip his switch and probably murder someone without thinking twice about it. If he was able to make the kitchen noiseless, Marco figured he was more of a superhero.

 

Eventually the two settled down in the dining room with their heads pressed on the table, allowing Krista and Armin to continue their cooking in peace once again. The bunch of bananas quickly disappeared as the stack of pancakes grew tall enough to become its own person. His gaze shifted from the fluffy mountain to the sizzling bacon on the stove, and apparently he wasn't the only one who was starving. Jean's stomach angrily growled beside him and his weak attempt to cover it with a cough made Marco chuckle to himself.

 

One by one, the others began to fill in the room. They quietly watched as the chef's distributed different amounts of food to each plate. The calming aroma of coffee flooded the kitchen, and it soothed their tangled minds. Armin and Krista appeared more like nurses giving the sickly kids sweet smiles as they placed a plate in front of them.

 

There wasn't enough thank you's Marco could give them for having so much patience while making their grub. It all came out as happy groans with each bite he'd take. The warmth from the omelet and sausage was cooled down by the fresh strawberries and grapes he'd pop in his mouth after. But the hotness from the coffee would cozy him up all over again, and it didn't matter if it was summertime - it made his tummy happy to feel the amount of care that went into his breakfast.

 

Before long the rest of the group slowly found their energy again. Bertholdt was sitting on the kitchen counter, next to the stove that contained a pan full of bacon that Reiner was quickly eating, while carefully speaking to him about what seemed to be something secretive. Behind him, Marco could hear Krista comforting Ymir while Sasha asked Connie and Mikasa if they were going to eat the rest of their hashbrowns. Annie had wrapped her food in tinfoil, explaining that her father was waiting for her, and left without further details. The mention of her parent reminded him of his own.

 

He pulled out his pocket, not because it had vibrated, but because he knew very well it'd be filled with missed calls and unopened messages from his mom. Marco was lucky enough he didn't drunk dial his mother, but Jean - with wishful thinking - would've stopped him since he had watched him all night like a babysitter monitoring a kid at the park knowing damn well he was eventually going to do something reckless.

 

Drunkenly calling his protective mother would've worried her more than not sending her anything at all. She already did enough of that whenever he didn't sleep at home. She still wasn't used to Marco sleeping over his friends places, even though it's been months now that he would occasionally not make it back. He knew she would have talked him out of going out with his friends if she attended his match, he was aware of how she felt about the sport. There's something about watching her boys being attacked and thrown around that didn't sit well in her heart.

 

**From: Ma**  
**\--How was the fight? Is your body still in one piece? You're eating dinner right?**  
**\--It's almost noon what time are you coming home? You better have eaten breakfast Marco.**

 

**To: Ma**  
**\--Don't worry, I'll be home in a bit!**

 

He put the small device back in his pocket and focused on the discussion between Armin and Eren, who were sitting in the stools to his left. They were in a heated conversation about the soccer team's upcoming season when he realized how quiet Jean was too his other side. Without noticing, he'd accidentally isolated the frowning boy. He was facing away from the group as much as possible, his desire to not speak with anyone made clear as he intensely focused on his phone. He felt guilty for being in between them. Marco guessed he'd be too lucky if Jean wanted to speak to him after last night... or anytime really. 

 

Marco cleared his throat, "Hey, Jean, do you want my seat? I'm about to head out."

 

_Dammit, I didn't get to apologize._

 

"Uh--"

 

Eren interrupted, "That works of perfectly!"

 

"What?" Marco questioned. 

 

"This guy needs a ride home since he came with Sash. Nobody is in the mood to leave yet and this loser just texted me asking for one."

 

"You can't force him to take me if he doesn't want to." Jean glared at Eren, the terror on his face evident.

 

Marco could see that he was upset, but this could be the only chance he'd have some privacy with him, "I don't mind! C'mon, your neighborhood is in walking distance from mine, so we're headed in the same direction anyway."

 

Whether Jean didn't want to seem like a baby and complain about who was taking him home or he was desperate enough to get to his house that he'd ride with Marco, but either way he shot a look at the hopeful boy before stiffly agreeing. Marco felt a little too happy with his reply and quickly stood up.

 

Jean grumbled a goodbye to the group while Marco practically sang it, and in return they were given boo's for leaving so early. Their chatter could be heard past the living room and now at the entrance where his keys hung from the key hanger. He unwillfully remembered Armin taking it from him when he tripped on himself during his drunken stupor, making the metal pinch his skin through the fabric of his jeans.

 

He shook the memory out of his head as he grabbed the cold object and then swung the door open. It was a shame the boys didn't appreciate Sasha's cool air enough because the sudden wave of heat that hit them took them by surprise. The breeze felt more like he had just opened a preheated oven. Although it was boiling, Marco didn't mind it too much, but Jean, on the other hand, made no attempt to hide his irritation. 

 

"God, I hate summer, it's too fucking." He angrily said from beside him.

 

"I'll try to get you home home real quick."

 

"Whatever, I just hope your A/C is working."

 

_You and me both._

 

"Ah, sorry... "

 

"You've got to be kidding me."

 

Their steps slowed down to a stop when they reached the Tahoe, Marco quickly unlocked it, afraid that Jean would bite his head off at anything else he found displeasing. They climbed in, and before Jean could even finish struggling to put on his seatbelt, all the windows came down. It did nothing to cool the sweat appearing on their skin or the redness it brought on Marco's face whenever he was hot, but it was better than being baked alive.

 

His old companion rumbled with life as Marco reversed out the driveway, thankful that no one had parked behind him. The familiarity of the rushing wind made him feel comfortable again, it was as if he was listening to a friend, and that friend was now reminding him of his opportunity with Jean, but for some reason Marco felt a little nervous about bringing up what he had done last night. In all honesty, he didn't think hugging him was that big of a deal, but it didn't matter what _he_ thought - it mattered what Jean thought. Thankfully, the grump didn't murder him then and there, or even after, but there was something off about him.

 

It was normal for Jean to complain about Marco - and at this point the boy was used to it - but it felt different, sheepish almost. While they were eating next to each other at the house, he noticed Jean would fidget whenever he looked towards his direction, he realized how Jean would slightly hesitate to touch him again when he was about to do something drunkenly stupid last night, and he noted the lack of confidence his words had when Eren suggested they ride together. So apologizing to Jean was a must since it made him uncomfortable around him, well, even _more_.

 

The only problem was bringing it up without making it weird.

 

_Too bad I can't say no homo since we're both homos. But it wasn't with that intention. It was a friend thing... except we're not friends... it was a human thing? No! It was a thank you. Right, I should say that and then apologize for not respecting personal space._

 

Marco took a peek at Jean, who was leaning as far away from the window as possible. His narrow eyes focused on the road, but the way he started playing with his fingers indicated that he knew he was being watched.

 

"What?" Jean asked without looking at him.

 

He turned back to the road, "I just wanted to apologize for last night."

 

"Like I said before, don't mention it. I was practically forced to watch you."

 

Marco rested his arm on the window, "No - well yeah, that too - but I mean... " He spoke carefully, " ...you know. "

 

He felt Jean's eyes on him now, "No, I _don't_ know."

 

_See Marco, you were worried about nothing. He doesn't even remember you touching him and you're over here freaking out._

 

"About hugging you," He relaxingly exhaled, "I saw how red you got and thought you were super pissed at me, and I was drunk so I thought that'd be a good way to show my appreciation. I just wanted to thank you for putting up with me and--"

 

"Wait!" Jean yelled. Marco almost kicked his brakes down from his abrupt screech. "You actually _remember_ that?"

 

Marco took a chance to stare at Jean's mortified face. The wind that crazily threaded throughout his car twisted his hair along with it, covering his eyes for a second, but then revealing how wide they were with shock.

 

"Yes?" He squeaked. 

 

"You weren't supposed to!"

 

"I'm sorry for remembering! And I'm really sorry for making you angry and uncomfortable!"

 

"Is that what you think?" His cheeks turned pink. "I mean, yeah I was uncomfortable! Just don't let it happen again!"

 

The silence that followed made them itch with awkwardness. The only sound that entered their ears came from the radio Marco desperately turned on and the way the other cars zoomed past them. He focused on the burning sensation the sun gave his arm to ease his nerves while Jean drummed his fingers on his thigh. Although he was afraid to speak again, Marco couldn't help the question that bubbled out of his lips.

 

"So," He gulped, "You thought I didn't remember anything and pretended we were OK?"

 

Jean sneered, "After drinking six cups of whatever the fuck Ymir brewed up in the kitchen I didn't think you'd even be alive."

 

He chuckled at that, "You must be disappointed."

 

"Sure am."

 

"You're gonna have to try harder to get rid of me."

 

This time it was Jean's turn to laugh, "Don't try and pretend my visits at your job aren't breaking you down."

 

"Oh, are you're planning on stopping by again?" He sarcastically asked, already knowing the answer.

 

"'Course. After the stunt you pulled, the least you could do is give me more free biscuits like last time."

 

"And then I'll be forgiven?"

 

"You wish. You owe me more than that."

 

_There's that pride again._

 

"Hm. So what else can I do for you, your majesty?"

 

"Shut up. You can do that."

 

No matter how much Jean tried to insult him, Marco couldn't take him seriously. His words never came out harsh, not even way back. He could probably yell every curse word at him and it would have no affect on the freckled boy. He felt silly for thinking that maybe Jean didn't really mean everything he spat out, and if he has learned anything from being around him for over a month now, it was that he was blunt with everyone. Marco would be a fool if he didn't notice how he treated him differently though. If outsiders saw the way they teased and burned each other, they'd think the boys were the best of friends, and he still hoped that that would be the case in the future.

 

Green trees and colorful civilians blurred by like a work of art, and the cloudless blue sky just made it all that more beautiful. There was always a disconnection when Marco admired earth and all of its inhabitants, it was as if he was no longer attached to a body. It was one of his very few tricks to forget whatever was worrying or hurting him. Finding awe in nature reminded him that there was still good, that he would be fine, and that whatever was causing him pain would turn into a good thing, and right now, there was no worry in his mind, only serenity.

 

The familiar buildings they passed were gone in a blink of an eye, but Marco could smell the nostalgia coming from his favorite ice cream store. He didn't even try to cover the way he breathed it in. The feel and sound of the draft intertwined itself with the sweetness of the desert, it was so perfect Marco didn't understand how anybody couldn't enjoy it. He loved it all, but it was noticeable that Jean didn't. He sat crossed arm like a child, the beads of sweat trickling down his flushed face.

 

He mentally high-fived himself, since he was still a little cautious about speaking again, when they neared their block. Asking for directions to his house wouldn't be necessary because, even though he's only been there a couple times, he still remembered which house belonged to him.

 

After weaving his way inside the neighborhood, he slowly parked in front of the driveway. His box of a home didn't particularly stand out, it looked like a regular one, but he knew better. Ms. Kirstein had the whole thing painted, but the exterior window shutters were painted navy blue while the door was a magnificent bright red - the colors of the French flag, she had explained. She even took advantage of the fact that the mailbox's wing was red, and decided to paint the metal box blue with a white wooden stand. Her decoration was limited to a few faded flamingoes on her empty flower bed and an artsy wind chime hanging next to their door.

 

His brown eyes moved from the shack to Jean, who was purposely not meeting his gaze. Instead, he put all his attention to fixing his hair the best he could. The brunet figured he'd feel weird thanking him for a ride, due to his dignity, so he decided to poke some fun at the boy.

 

"So," Marco held out his palm in front of a confused Jean, and with his most serious face he asked, "Gas, ass, or grass?"

 

"Huh?"

 

A rainbow of emotions flickered onto Jean's face. The warm temperature was not the reason for the sudden redness blooming on his skin as he had an internal monologue. His amber eyes glazed over with whatever he was now picturing in his head.

 

_Holy shit, he thinks I'm being serious._

 

Marco couldn't help the blush that krept up to his sweaty cheeks. He knew Jean didn't carry around any weed, and assuming he didn't have any cash on him since money was tight at his home as well, he was probably thinking he only had his ass to offer.

 

"I-I'm just kidding," Marco forcibly laughed, "Free ride."

 

Jean didn't have to verbally call him an idiot, he was perfectly saying it with his glare. He opened the passenger door, pausing after getting half his body out. His head rigidly turned to face the awaiting, and slightly frightened, boy.

 

"Thank. You." He said through his teeth.

 

Marco's eyes widened, "No problem, Jean."

 

With too much force he flung his door shut, but Marco didn't care. His eyes didn't stray from the way Jean's hair flopped from the burning wind hitting him, or in the way his shirt held on to his dewy back as he walked towards his home. It was a habit of Marco's to make sure anyone he was dropping off made it to their destination safely, but he didn't notice how his eyes still lingered after Jean had disappeared inside.

 

\--------------------

 

"I'm gonna fucking do it."

 

"Please don't."

 

"I'm sick of seeing his face."

 

"But you'll get fired if you say something."

 

"So? The manager is a piece of shit anyways."

 

"I'll handle it ok?"

 

"Marco, talking to him won't work. You're going to have to kick his ass if you won't let me."

 

"No! Then _I'll_ get fired."

 

"Ugh, _fine_! Have it your way!"

 

Ymir threw her towel over her shoulder. She gave Marco a look before heading out to the floor to do her job, her thin arms carrying a large bin for dirty plates and glasses. He wasn't ready to leave with his tray yet, he had to mentally prepare himself for the abuse he was about to endure.

 

Sometime last week, thankfully the week after his fight, the restaurant received a new regular. He was a middle-aged, bald man who wore expensive looking suits every time he came. At first, he seemed like a normal, well behaved human being, but the second he opened his mouth, everyone figured out that that was not the case.

 

If he felt like a worker even glanced at him the wrong way, the man wouldn't hold back his sour remarks. He'd test the employees, seeing how far they'd keep up their fake smiles and politeness. The manager knew he was messing with them, but the man came so often, and ordered the most high-priced foods for himself and every new date he'd bring, that he would tell them to just grin and bear it. This, obviously, did not sit well with any of them - especially because he never even bothered to tip - but if they wanted to keep receiving a check they had to listen to the unfairness.

 

Beautiful watches of silver accompanied by rings of gold did nothing to make such a rude man the least bit attractive. If he was like any other annoying customer, it wouldn't be as big of a problem that it was, but the man had no shame in yelling at the workers and that pissed off even some of the clients. He became such a nuisance so quickly that Jean was now the highlight of his labor days. Compared to the beast, he was a saint, not that Jean was actually good at playing the needy customer - he acted more like his adorable mother.

 

Marco had the fortune of having to serve both of them today, but thankfully it was almost near closing time. Jean had made no comment about the man, only focusing on the free biscuits Marco's been giving him for a week now, but every now and then he'd catch him throwing the man a _real_ glare, one he's never seen before this.

 

As if the erratic brute could read his thoughts, his yellow teeth could be heard complaining from where Marco stood right now, and the dread that filled him kicked his feet into drive. With heavy legs, Marco carefully dashed out the room and onto the floor.

 

The young girl who was sitting in front of the old man perked up when she saw Marco.

 

"There he fucking is," Boomed the man when he approached them, "We've been waiting forever, Jesus Christ! A damn sloth could move faster than you."

 

"I'm sorry, sir." Marco apologized, placing the drinks in front of them.

 

He hastily sipped his wine, then rudely spit it out as if he had been waiting this whole time to purposely do that, "What the hell is this?"

 

"I-It's the Pinot Grigio you ordered."

 

"The hell it is. This taste _disgusting_. I don't want it anymore, give me whatever the hell she's drinking," He leaned in to inspect her drink, "What the fuck _are_ you drinking?"

 

"I got a strawberry thing," She moved the cup to her chest, "Look, it matches my dress."

 

"Uh-huh, that's nice," His attention was back at Marco, "Boy, get me a strawberry shit, too. Make it quick, I don't appreciate losing valuable time. Unlike you people, I'm an important man and I need to be somewhere after this."

 

"Yes, sir." He smiled.

 

He grabbed his cup, careful not to spill it, and turned to head back into the kitchen. Jean was sitting in the table next to the couple, so he was able to hear all of that. If he really wanted to play the villain at an already difficult job, now would be the time to be taking notes, but the annoyance on Jean's face told him he wouldn't be doing that.

 

When he asked for the man's drink, he felt Ymir pop him in the ear from behind him. She had her arms crossed and her eyes were oozing with irritation.

 

"No Ymir, you can't murder someone in public."

 

She huffed, "How can you be so calm! He's asking for it!"

 

The new drink quickly made its way to his tray, and with a little smile to Ymir he said, "His words can't do anything."

 

_Dio, dammi forza._

 

As he served the rude customer, Marco let half his mind handle the distress while the other half desperately distracted itself with anything but. While he was being given a lesson on manners for not asking how the drinks were - despite the man already expressing his feelings about it - he noticed how mesmerizing the sun looked as it was lowering itself down to let the world sleep, when he had to apologize for the low amount of shrimp his dish had, he observed how, in fact, the girl's dress was a nice color.

 

When they finally seemed pleased enough to eat without bothering him, Jean waved him down. The evidence that he's been there for hours was thanks to the empty plate of mozzarella cheesesticks that were pushed to the side while his water and soulless bread basket were scattered in front of him. Jean was angry, but not at Marco.

 

"Yes?"

 

He frowned, "Ymir says I can kick his ass."

 

Instinctively, he crouched down to Jean's level, his mouth hung open with surprise. It was nice - in an odd way - for him to want to stand up for him and all the people the man kept insulting, but the last thing he wanted was the old guy to hear that they wanted to fight him.

 

"N-no," He whispered, "Please don't listen to her."

 

"But he's an asshole!" Jean hissed, "Look, it's like two hours until closing time and there's only a couple other people in here. They're all giving him dirty looks, we all want this."

 

"Except for me. It's ok, I can handle this. He's all bark, no bite."

 

His scowl deepened, but he didn't protest. Instead Marco went back to the kitchen to get him more free food as a thank you for trying to defend the staff. He was practically invisible to Jean with the way his eyes widened when he caught sight of the warm bread. He wondered how bad this probably was for him. Downing five glasses of water along with a dozen buttery buns and appetizers is not the meal of an athlete, but either way he gave it to him.

 

Jean didn't have enough time to embarrassingly express his gratitude.

 

"Hey, are you feeding the homeless?" Laughed the man from beside them.

 

"Honey, stop being mean." Said the girl.

 

"Honey, don't speak," He pointed a finger towards Jean, "You're always here, wearing those filthy clothes. I can't enjoy my food if I have to look at dirt. Why don't you wash yourself before you enter an eating place, huh?"

 

Insulting Marco was one thing, but doing it to the customers was an other. He tried his best not to make his grin so transparently fake.

 

"Please don't speak to the other customers that way, sir."

 

"Excuse you, you're just the help, I'm speaking to the boy."

 

Marco turned to look at Jean, but he wasn't focused on anything but the man. His squinted eyes yelled with rage, and whatever they were screaming out was being held shut by his clenched jaw.

 

The man gawked, "Are you mad?"

 

No response from Jean.

 

The beast looked at his date to see if she was as amused as he was, but she looked worried, which made him laugh even louder.

 

"Why are you mad, kid? You shouldn't get upset if someone tells you the truth. Get this useless waiter to get you a wet cloth. You've got a little dirt on your face there."

 

His pinky finger circled around his own face to show Jean where he was talking about, but he didn't move an inch. Marco felt something bad in the pit of his stomach.

 

"Jean, stay calm." Marco pleaded, but it was useless.

 

"Oh, so you know each other huh?" He motioned to Marco, "Come here."

 

He took a few steps forward before he found himself being pulled on by the sleeve of his uniform. The icey sweet water that was now being poured onto his chest made him freeze where he stood, astonished and confused at what he had done, but the glass that broke into a million pieces on the floor made him jump in surprise. The few people that were in there gasped, despite the fact that they were watching the whole time. The only noise he could focus on was the vile, entertained chuckle ahead of him.

 

"There now go wipe his face before I complain to your boss that there's homeless people eating here."

 

He didn't understand who's hand it was that shoved him out of the way, but the two toned hair that he saw flying answered his uncertainty quickly. As if in slow motion, he saw the boys knuckles make contact with the man's still smiling mouth. The force was strong enough to jerk his head to the side, the recoil causing it to bob. Ymir must've been cleaning nearby since she was able to reach them in a matter of seconds. Marco had to hold her back before she physically hurt the man as well, but her long legs were able to kick his knees as a last effort.

 

Jean was getting ready for another punch when the manager grabbed him from behind.

 

"You two in my office, now!" He turned Jean around, "And you - I want you out of here before I call the police!"

 

Jean yanked himself from his grip, he glared at the man moaning in pain, but obeyed. His balled fists stayed by his side until he disappeared outside the doors.

 

Ymir cursed under her breath as they walked to the back of the restaurant while the manager asked for forgiveness, forgiveness Marco knew he'd never accept, and because of that they'd probably be suspended - or worse - fired.

 

While they waited in the cramped room, Ymir handed Marco the towel she seemed to always carry around with her to dry himself as best he could. For the first time in a long while, he was afraid. Negative thoughts stormed in his mind with each passing second. Terror found its way into his heart, but also remorse. He had told them he'd be able to handle it, and he didn't, but he wondered if there could've even been a way to please the man.

 

The sound of the door opening startled him, but Ymir instantly glowered.

 

"You guys need to apologize." The manager exhaled, exhausted.

 

Ymir stood, " _What_?!"

 

"Hey, hey, hey, lower your voice."

 

"Then lower your expectations because there's no way in hell I'm saying sorry to that piece of shit."

 

"Do you want to get fired?" He threatened.

 

"You'd rather keep that asshole than your hard working workers?"

 

"It's not about that--"

 

She smirked, "Right, it's about the money. In that case, I'm fucking done. Marco, I'll meet you outside."

 

She stormed out, slamming the door with as much force as possible. His manager exhaled once again, running a hand through his hair, and then looked at the quiet boy.

 

"Who's the kid that threw the punch?" His eyes narrowed, "Is that the one you keep giving bread to?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Is he your friend?"

 

Denying that would be like committing a crime. After what Jean had done, he couldn't see him as anything else.

 

"Yes, he's my friend."

 

He sighed, "Well tell him he's banned from here. You need to go apologize to the gentleman out there, got it?"

 

Marco swallowed, "N-no."

 

"I'm sorry," He blinked, "What?"

 

"I can't do that. I - _We_ didn't do anything wrong. He was being disrespectful and he spilled--"

 

"So everyone who's rude automatically deserves a punch to the face? Is that what you're saying?"

 

His anger was about to spill out like the drink that was poured onto him, "No, that's not what I'm saying, but if you're going to ignore the verbal abuse that man gives us, then I quit, and I hope the others do, too, until you ban _him_."

 

"That's not how life works, kid." He shook his head.

 

"No, it doesn't, but that doesn't give anybody the right to disrespect and take advantage of those who don't have high-ranking jobs."

 

Marco got up and gently closed the door behind him. He pretended not to hear the muffled curses his employer was shouting - he was too busy calming his hammering heartbeat as he walked passed the remaining people that were whispering to each other. The fowl man could be heard from the kitchen, screaming orders at the staff for a frozen piece of meat.

 

Two hours was all the time they needed to make it through another day, to still be on the payroll and provide for their families, but thinking about it now, he knew it probably would've ended in a similar way on a different day. If his mother would've seen the way he belittled him - and everyone else - she would've done the exact same thing Jean did. Her only worry would be in making sure Marco was ok. She'd tell him he'd find another job like before, and that they'd be alright, but he still felt weak and useless.

 

The air outside soothed his heated face, and with a deep breath, he let it invade his lungs. The sun was gone, but there was still a beautifully dim light in the sky. His legs felt lighter now as he walked towards his car. Ymir, and surprisingly, Jean were sitting on his bumper, their expression varied from anger to defeat.

 

"What's the verdict?" Ymir asked when he reached them.

 

"I'm a free man, now."

 

Jean's eyes widened, but he didn't say anything. The guilt on his face mixed with something else he couldn't quite point out.

 

"Eh, who needs them," She cupped her hand to her mouth and faced the building, "Who needs ya!"

 

"Ymir." He half seriously warned.

 

She grinned, "Let's go home, I'm beat."

 

"Ok, let me just walk Jean to his car."

 

At the sound of his name, Jean jumped to his feet. Marco knew he was about to protest, and before he could, he threw his keys to Ymir and began walking in the direction of his car. It wasn't hard to miss since it was the only red vehicle in the lot. He heard Ymir smack his back before she went inside the Tahoe.

 

Jean made sure to stay behind him, one of them calmly marched while the other dragged on. The sound of their steps muted when they made it to the Jetta. They didn't speak at first, he didn't know exactly what he wanted to even say to Jean. Sensing Marco's hesitation, he took advantage of his mind deep in thought to lean against the driver's door. He crossed his legs and waited.

 

Marco positioned himself in front of him, "Thanks, Jean."

 

"Thanks? You're not mad?"

 

"At you? Of course not."

 

He looked away. "But I got you fired."

 

"Actually, I quit. My boss wanted me to say sorry," With a tender voice he added, "You didn't do anything wrong, none of us did. I just wanted to let you know that since you looked like you thought this was your fault."

 

"The geezer insulted my soccer uniform, I had to do _something_." He rubbed the back of his neck, "A-and even if you say it wasn't my fault, I'm still... sorry."

 

Marco chuckled, "Oh, don't worry, you can make it up to me later."

 

"How exactly?"

 

"I'll let you know when I think of something."

 

"And then I'll be forgiven?" He raised his eyebrow in disbelief.

 

Marco back away to head to his car, "Not even close, you owe me more than that."

 

He stuck his tongue out at him, to let him know he was only teasing. The twilight holding on to the darkening sky made Jean's eyes look otherworldly. His face was pink, and eyebrows furrowed, but the smile that threatened to break out on his lips just made him laugh.

 

"Hm, I wonder where I heard _that_ before."

 

"Some dork named Jean," Marco joked, "You might've heard about him."

 

Jean rolled his eyes, "Later, freckles."

 

"Bye, horseface."

 

Right then Marco decided that even though Jean didn't think of him as a friend, he would consider him one. He couldn't help the smile that plastered on to his face with the thought of their dimly lit relationship beginning to glow.

 

_I just lost my job, I shouldn't feel this accomplished._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to stop making them flirt


	7. Aureate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're not alone, you're hiding and what the mouth doesn't say, the face shows.

_Jean ignored his mother's concern when he busted through the door, throwing everything on the floor and running to his room. The pain in his throat wouldn't subside no matter how hard he tried to swallow the piece of kernel, it just wouldn't go down. His legs felt like the nasty jello his school served, making the climb up to his bed a challenge. With heaving breathing, he curled himself up into a ball and shut his eyes._

 

_There had always been a voice in the back of his mind telling him he was a little different from the rest of the boys. It'd never been louder than a whisper, but now he couldn't get it to shut up. During that moment he could feel how true it was, that he had no interest in females, that he was gay._

 

_He desperately tried to calm his little heart down and erase the images of the movie he had just ran away from. Jean knew what gay meant. He knew more or less how it worked, but he never thought too deep about it because, until now, it never affected him. His only interests were sports, playing online video games, and listening to his favorite band._

 

_Two wires in his brain made a connection. The reason why he felt anything when watching the video was because the man reminded him of one of the group members, the guy he admired and dyed his hair like for. The shame rushed back to him again, but couldn't understand why he felt so uncomfortable about it. It was nothing to be ashamed of because he knew people were born this way, like his principal Mr. Erwin, and it's not like he had to "fix" himself. Picturing the man beating someone up for telling him mean things almost made Jean giggle._

 

_But still, he questioned if he should even tell anybody. He felt fear crawling up his chest, but he reminded himself that there was still time to figure things out before anyone had to know anything. He turned over onto his tummy and slid his arm under the pillow. His eyes flickered open when he felt a cold case touch his fingers. He already knew which CD was hiding there before he even pulled it out. His chubby cheeks burned at his own corniness. A thought rattled inside him._

 

_"Alright, it's now or never." He said to himself as he climbed out of bed._

 

_Jean went to the corner of his bedroom where his old computer was at. He was going to face this head on and it gave him a sense of bravery, but his fingers froze on his keyboard - after waiting five minutes for the screen to load - he realized he had no idea where to even start or what to type in on the search bar. The thought of asking his mom for advice made his stomach twist. That would be a conversation that would have to wait for God knows how long. Jean wished at least one of his friends were gay so he wouldn't feel so... lost._

 

_Before he could completely chicken out, he decided to search for the definition of the word gay, but it didn't quite put him at ease. The words were too robotic, too vague for his young mind. The advice websites he stumbled upon went into more detail about gay people's outside influences like religion, homophobes, relationships, and coming out to people close to them. Those things were indeed important, but that wasn't what he needed at the moment. He just wanted to hear real people talking about it, what their inner thoughts and feelings about themselves were, and to hear them tell him he'd be fine. Frustration slowly, but surely, found its way in him._

 

_"Jeanbo?" His mother rattled his locked door knob._

 

_He jumped at the sound of her voice, happy to have picked up the habit of automatically locking his door, "W-what?"_

 

_"What are you doing? Is everything ok?"_

 

_"I'm fine, mom!"_

 

_She sighed, "Are you on that computer again? I knew letting you keep it in there was a bad idea." She rattled the knob once more._

 

_Instinctively, he covered the screen with one hand while the other pressed down the circular button to shut it off. "N-no, I'm not. What do you want?"_

 

_"Come and eat, lunch is ready, but you better wash those hands of yours if you were on one of those virus websites."_

 

_He almost gagged, "Gross, mom! I'll be there in a minute, geez!"_

 

 _"_ Je ne comprend pas les ados _."_

 

_Her footsteps eventually disappeared, but he still allowed himself a couple minutes to cool down. With the way she was, he didn't know if she'd be the first - or last - to know about his sexual orientation. He rolled his eyes at the thought of her asking him a million questions about it and crying about not being able to be a grandma. He tried not to get flustered over something that hasn't even happened yet, but it didn't stop him from stomping down their rickety stairs._

 

_The yellow dining room walls surrounded the small family of two. He told himself he was a secret agent, that him being gay was classified information, and with one slip of the tongue he'd have to finish all the string beans on his plate. It helped a little, but there was still panic. Thankfully, the way his mother was talking nonstop like always helped him relax. She was being same old mom and he would continue being the same old Jean._

 

_"... and since they all got fired for stealing tips, my schedule is going to change next month. I'll be going to work in the afternoon, but I'll be home by the time you go to school. Before you start crying about who's going to cook, I'll have enough time to make you dinner before I go. I'm just worried that you'll be lonely. Do you want me to get you a babysitter?"_

 

_"No way, I'm going to middle school this year. I can handle being all by myself."_

 

_She pinched his cheeks, "You're still my baby, though."_

 

 _"_ Maman, _" He complained, shoving her hand away, "I'm not a baby, I'm grown."_

 

_"Don't tell me you have hair growing around your---"_

 

_He choked on the chicken that had been in his mouth, "That's none of your business! B-but I have like two hairs growing on my left armpit, see?"_

 

_When Jean first noticed his body changing, he hid it from his mother, but he soon realized how the absence of the father he knew he'd never see was affecting him. He wanted to ask questions the school's health class didn't answer, and seeing how his mother was the only one he trusted with this sort of information, he tried his best to open up to her without feeling shy. It was safe to say he fully regretted it some days, and others, he was happy to have done it._

 

_His mother put her fork down to inspect the pit Jean displayed inches from her face. She feigned surprise, but her genuine smile made him feel proud of his poor excuse for hairs._

 

 _"My_ petit garçon _is becoming a man."_

 

_"Soon enough I'll be able to help you around."_

 

 _"You already do enough,_ mon bébé. _Just do good in school and I'll stay the happiest."_

 

_He wished it'd be that easy._

 

_She sighed, "Oh these years are flying by too fast. In the blink of an eye you're going to graduate high school, then graduate college, then have a career. You'll settle down with a beautiful woman and have lots of babies and forget all about your old lady."_

 

_He felt as if ice were running down to his guts, but his face was hot with anger. He slammed a pudgy fist to the table._

 

_"Don't decide things on your own!"_

 

_He ran back to his room with remorse. He knew his mom didn't say anything wrong. After all, she didn't know anything about his new discovery about himself, but it was hard for him to think before he could speak. The emotions he felt were too intense to hold back and the frustration and anger that flowed like the blood in his veins continued to boil on to Monday._

 

_At school, Jean was too deep in his thoughts to pay attention to what his friends were talking about. It all sounded muffled and distant. He didn't even pay attention to the sound of Ms. Ral introducing the new student, or the sound of their seat rubbing against the carpet after they said hello. Instead, he kept his face buried in his arms and waited for class to start, but Eren's cracking voice was hard to brush off._

 

_He had a lot of guts to openly speak about the horrid movie they'd watch, but now he was beginning to wonder if his friend had even paid any attention to it. His description on the woman and place were completely wrong. He had never made a comment about the male._

 

_"You guys should've seen it. It was freaking awesome."_

 

_"Ha. I've already seen a bunch." Said Daz._

 

_"Oh yeah? Where?" Thomas questioned, not believing him._

 

_"My dad has a whole stack next to the TV."_

 

_"Gross." Eren judged. "Your dad is weird."_

 

_"Whatever, you watched one, too."_

 

_"Well this one was cool, right Jean?"_

 

_His head snapped up to glare at Eren. He wanted to yell at him that no, he didn't think it was amazing at all. In fact, it had been disturbing and he felt left out and alone thanks to it. He very much wanted to tell them that, but he couldn't. He was too afraid to accidentally slip out his secret, and agents never give out their secrets._

 

_"It was alright."_

 

_Eren raised his eyebrow, "So what happened to you anyway? Why'd you run?"_

 

_"What?" Daz laughed, "Did a triple X movie scare ya?"_

 

_"Shut up, Daz, you're scared of everything."_

 

_"So then why did you leave?" Thomas asked._

 

_"I-My mom. I forgot she told me she, uh, wanted me home early."_

 

_"Sounds like bull." Scoffed Eren._

 

_"Well you smell like one."_

 

_Daz and Thomas oh'd in unison._

 

_"And you look like a pony!"_

 

_"That's better than being short like you!"_

 

_Thomas gasped, "That was low, dude."_

 

_"Gosh, what got your panties in a twist? Screw this, I'm gonna go greet the new guy."_

 

_Eren exaggerated his movements as he stood up, the guys followed, walking towards the opposite side of the room. He didn't care enough to watch them go, he was also getting annoyed with himself. It'd all be easier to just let it out rather than staying in his mind. He wondered if it'd be a bad thing to tell them._

 

_He was afraid of the different outcomes that could happen if he told them the truth. They could reject him, they could bully him, they could tell the whole world about him, but then again he could be accepted, understood, and have nothing change. If he was brave enough to acknowledge that there was a fifty percent chance it'd go well, he'd do it, but it was much too soon for that. He already struggled enough talking about hairs growing in private places._

 

_Lunch time couldn't even brighten up Jean's mood. Without realizing, he was eating too aggressively and disgustingly. The other kids at the cafeteria who were witnessing his behavior were beginning to feel sorry for the mutilated food that flung of of his mouth, but he didn't notice them. He was just content at being the first at his table before his friends came back from the lines, he had to let out as much energy before they reached him. Thankfully, his stretchy pizza was finally brightening him up._

 

_Jean could hear his friends voices from behind him, walking towards the table. "Daz, for the gazillionth time, tie your shoe laces."_

 

_"Shut up, I still haven't figured out if the bunny ear goes through or under the loop."_

 

_"Then put some velcro shoes - watch out!"_

 

_While he had been mentally making fun of Daz, Jean felt cold liquid being splashed onto his hair, causing him to squeeze his eyes shut before they could sting. Something hot and thick clung to his shoulder and smeared its way down to his chest,followed by tiny warm balls finding their way inside his collar shirt. The cafeteria grew quiet, but the were a couple chuckles echoing around the room._

 

_He twisted around, slowly opening his eyes to give Daz the angriest look he could manage, but the first thing that caught his eye was the pink strawberry milk that now stained his white shirt and the way it mixed with the pale mashed potatoes on his belly. The second was how everyone was looking at him, then down to the floor where the culprit was._

 

_"Daz." He said through gritted teeth._

 

_"Umm, actually..." Came a quivering voice from his feet._

 

_His eyes locked with a stranger. The other boy's face was struck with fear as he nervously got up, Daz was splat on the floor beside him, but Jean didn't look away from the terrified kid. His light brown eyes dashed all over Jean's face as he tried to apologize, but Jean just stared at him. He gawked at the freckles that went from one of his cheeks to the other, and how pink they were with embarrassment. The stranger was moving so quickly to clean him up now that Jean thought his neatly side combed hair would come undone._

 

_He then felt two emotions. One - for sure - was anger. He had had a crap day questioning something that would affect him for literally the rest of his life. He was angry at himself for feeling lonely and not being brave enough to tell people important to him what he felt, and on top of that he now had to deal with this public humiliation. If he wanted to hold on to his pride, he was going to have to beat the stranger up, but that would get in the way of his other emotion._

 

_If the butterflies in his belly wasn't enough proof that he had an instant crush on the boy, then the flutter in his heart would. The other boy looked painfully sorry, and he looked adorable the way he tried to clean him up. It made Jean blush as pink as the milk all over him, but the color staining his defiled shirt made him worry. Pink was the color for girls, and everyone knew girls liked boys, just like he did. Feeling foolishly exposed and afraid, he shoved the freckled boy away - but not too hard, he didn't want to hurt him._

 

_As much as he tried, he couldn't stop feeling gross about himself, he couldn't stop the threat he gave the stranger - that he would pay for embarrassing him - and he couldn't stop glowering at everyone. He left his friends and food behind, quickly walking to the bathroom to clean off the mess on his clothes and the mess in his head._

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"...ean? Jean, you still alive?"

 

The sleeping boy jumped when he felt an unwelcomed finger poke his head.

 

He sat up from his desk, slowly taking in where he was, and groaned when he remembered - school. They were barely in second period, and after taking another short quiz this week in class, Jean had snoozed off when he turned his in. He realized by the sound of the other kids talking that they had finally finished their own and were now waiting for the teacher.

 

Now that he had his senses back, somewhere deep down he was beginning to feel disturbed, like if he had done something bad. His brain was a traitor, it wouldn't allow him to remember his dream. Whatever it had been about, it must have been a bad one since his chest felt hollow and yet oddly heavy at the same time.

 

"What were you dreaming about?" Asked the deep voice beside him.

 

He rubbed his eyes, "Nothing, why?"

 

"You kept twitching, especially your face."

 

Jean looked at the brunet. His palms rested on his chin while his brown eyes studied him with mild interest. There wasn't anything that really stood out about him - besides the shit ton of spots on him - but that didn't stop the rainbow of feelings that invaded Jean's heart. He couldn't quite sort his emotions into thoughts, so he continued with their conversation, in fear that it'd be revealed that what he felt was negative.

 

"'S that why you woke me up?" He complained.

 

"That and Mr. Pixis is handing back our quiz now."

 

Right on cue their teacher placed the white paper in front of the boys, and once again he noticed how Marco's was turned on its front so he couldn't see his grade. He looked away when the bald man leaned towards the other boy, instead he focused on his own average grade with boredom.

 

"Will the project that's due at the end of the month be better than how you did today?" He kindly whispered.

 

"Yes, sir, I'll do my best."

 

He left with a satisfied grunt, but Jean could practically feel the disappointment oozing from him. He peeked up at Marco to see the unnatural gloom he wore every time they got back a graded assignment. His bizarre frown was covered by his paper, eyes burning holes on the visible red ink like if it'd change if he stared hard enough.

 

"Hey, Jean?" Marco suddenly asked.

 

"Yes, _Marco_?"

 

"Remember how you punched that one customer that one time?"

 

_Oh shit, here it comes, I dunno what exactly, but here it comes._

 

"Yeah, considering it happened a few days ago, why?" He cautiously asked.

 

"Well, remember how you owe me?"

 

_Fuck, there it is. I knew I'd regret going along with that._

 

"Uh-huh, where exactly is this going, Bott?"

 

With a dramatic _whoosh_ , the freckled boy slammed his paper in front of Jean. A single tan finger pointed to the sad grade he had been mentally cursing at seconds ago. The alarm Jean felt turned to surprised humor, and he was ready to burst out laughing, but the look on Marco's serious face warned him not to.

 

"How'd you manage to get a ten percent?"

 

"I'm not good with this subject. I do fine in all my other classes, but this one kills me every year."

 

Jean inspected the sheet again, "And what exactly is it that you want from me?"

 

"Help me, please. I can't go to after school tutoring because I'm looking for work and when I'm not looking for work I'm at my BJJ class. You have soccer practice, right? So it works out since we're both free later in the day..."

 

_BJJ? What does that stand for again? ___

 

"... I can't afford to go to summer school for one class again. A-and it's also convenient that we live close. I could just walk to your house or you to mine. I'm fine with either one. Please, Jean, I really need--"

 

"Ok! Alright, I get it, calm down."

 

Marco's eyes lit up, "Really?"

 

"Yes, _really_ , but I'm a shitty explainer at stuff and I can't promise you you'll get better grades - actually, scratch that, I don't think you can do any worse than this."

 

He laughed, "I could get all of them wrong, but I don't think that'll happen. You get good scores."

 

"'Course I do, I'm a genius." Jean fiddled with his pencil. "So, when do you want to start? I can't do next week because of the game."

 

"Actually, I was thinking more like tomorrow?"

 

"Isn't tomorrow Friday? One day of tutoring sounds pretty pointless."

 

"I need all the help I can get. One day could make all the difference."

 

"Fine, I guess. Tomorrow... at my house. Anything else or do I still owe you?" He sarcastically asked, but Marco didn't seem to catch on - or pretended not to.

 

His eyes looked up at the ceiling as he thought of anything else Jean could possibly do for him. The fact that the angry boy accepted his plea of help so easily gave him the confidence to ask him for one more thing.

 

"Be my project partner."

 

"You're getting ballsy there, Jesus, you didn't even bother to ask."

 

Marco quirked an eyebrow, "Is that a yes or a no?"

 

"Well I'm already stuck tutoring you on the subject, so why not?"

 

The smile that spread across the boys face made Jean feel good about accepting his request, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't allowed to feel the closeness he awkwardly felt with him. His first intentions when he realized avoiding Marco was no longer an option was to ignore him, then when that didn't work out it was to only address him when necessary, now he didn't know what the hell he was doing our how to even stop.

 

_What if I give in and try to get along with him? After all, I did get him fired, even if he says it wasn't my fault. If I hadn't punched the old fart, he and Ymir would still have jobs. But he didn't look upset about it... He actually looked relieved._

 

"So your house?" Marco asked. He had taken his paper back and was now doodling all over it.

 

"Mmhmm."

 

"What's a good time for you?"

 

"Soccer practice ends at four - sometimes five - so anytime after that is good."

 

Marco grinned, "Ok, I'll be there at five-thirty."

 

"Bring junk food." He half joked.

 

"Yeah, about that..."

 

Jean hadn't expected to receive a stern lecture about his eating habits from him, but that's exactly what he was getting while the teacher went around answering questions about the quiz to the more serious students. They playfully bickered at one another, Jean feigning annoyance as Marco began naming all the food he should be consuming with his type of conditioning. When Mr. Pixis went into more detail about their upcoming project, Jean quickly scrawled a list of foods for Marco to bring. When he handed out different types of writing they could choose from, Marco turned Jean's list into a paper airplane and sent it right back.

 

The empty seat that should have been for their third member - which Jean always took notice of - was forgotten as they stupidly smiled at one another.

 

\-------------------------------

 

"Why is he pushing us so hard? We never win these things."

 

"I'm so tired. I just wanna go home."

 

"I smell like ass."

 

"Will you guys shut the fuck up already?"

 

Practice was brutal the next day, so brutal that even Bertholdt wasn't trying to stop the way Eren fought with the team, so brutal that instead of joining in with the whiners, Jean panted like dog beside the other boys. The sun hated them again today, blasting its rays harshly at them, once again leaving their skin unwanted burns. Jean wouldn't have minded if he received a tan, but he was only rewarded with pink and sensitive skin.

 

They were on their last lap, which had started out with them running in perfect harmony, but now most were left behind dragging their feet on the dark cement as if they had been walking in the desert for many days now. He didn't know how Eren could find the strength to bicker with anybody as they huffed and puffed, legs heavy, mouths greedily sucking in oxygen, and chests aching. But he could understand his anger - to a certain degree. If their own team didn't believe in them, who else could?

 

Their coach's whistle blew a couple times, indicating the end of practice. He called them in, waving his arms towards himself - he was going to give them one of his _pre_ pre speeches like always.

 

"Gather 'round, gather 'round." He sounded bored.

 

Jean's body bumped along with the zombie boys as they huddled into a deformed circle. He was sandwiched between Bert and Eren. One was red faced and eager to listen to false motivation while the other sweat bullets and stared at something that was way out of reach.

 

"So, I've been informed that we'll be up against the Titan's first--"

 

"What?"

 

"C'mon, not again."

 

"That's it, we're done for."

 

"--I know, I know," Their coach sighed, "But you've all been working really hard and if you quit your bitching out in the field for once, we might have a shot at winning. Even if the other kids _do_ look like thirty year old giants rather than high school seniors, I don't want any fuck ups."

 

"Is that kind of talk supposed to help?" Jean asked with sourness in his tone. The heat made him cranky.

 

Eren nudged him, "Hey, he's got a point. If we focus on the game and work together, we could outsmart them."

 

"That's not how it fucking works. Even when we don't argue we still lose."

 

"It's that type of attitude that prevents us from winning!"

 

"I could be stupidly hopeful like you and we'd _still_ lose!"

 

The coach rubbed the bridge of nose in frustration. The boys were split like the asses he wanted to kick - some on Eren's side and some on Jean's - but they were all morons to him. If they put all that passion into their games, maybe they'd win... maybe, but not likely.

 

He disrupted their dispute with more information. "The game will be on our field. It starts at nine P.M., but I need you all here an hour before. If we win, we win, but if not then fuck it."

 

"Fuck it." The team repeated.

 

He dismissed them, all were happy to head home or shower. The trio didn't speak as they walked towards the building. Their wet shirts and grass stained uniform indeed did smell disgusting, but thankfully they were able to experience a few gusts of wind before going inside. The two others immediately began to strip, but Jean just took out his belongings from his locker, shuffling his book bag on, and checked the time on his phone.

 

"You're not showing?" Bertholdt asked in surprise.

 

"I wanna shower home. I'm too tired to do it here." He lied.

 

They didn't question him, and he was glad. It wasn't exactly a secret that he was meeting up with someone he supposedly hated, but he had to admit he'd be a little embarrassed if they found out. Eren would undoubtedly question him nonstop, questions he wouldn't know how to answer.

 

When Jean arrived home, he quickly jumped in the tub before Marco could arrive. The usual fifteen minutes he spent in the shower turned to seven and the only way he could relax was to scrub his scalp until it hurt. Having Sasha over his house was different from having a boy - who only stepped foot there once - come over. It made him nervous and he felt self conscious about the way his home looked and even smelled.

 

While he dressed in his most comfortable old pajamas, he looked around his room to make sure it was neat and as normal as he could get it to be, but he left a couple of articles of clothing and paper on the floor. He didn't want Marco to think he cared about how he presented himself, except he did. The proof was in the way he carefully untaped the picture of his favorite *NSYNC man from the wall where his desk faced.

 

Downstairs was a lot harder to make look even remotely appealing. He personally didn't mind the decoration he little by little bought throughout the years, but the colors of the walls were hard to look at. The people who previously owned the house were old raisins stuck in the seventies. They left behind their yellow walls that went from the living room to the dining room area while the rest of downstairs was glued to brown and orange flower wallpaper. He was happy the floors were wooden, in fear of what muddy color they would've made it. Probably maroon like the couch.

 

He sat his tired body on their wooden table chairs, more regret finding its way inside him as he loudly exhaled. All he wanted to do was sleep, but it was too late for that. Marco would be there any minute, and if he judged Jean on how his house looked liked, he'd find the strength to tell him off. He knew Marco wouldn't do that though, but he would never say that out loud. The only way he could stay awake was to be angry at something - that and his phone.

 

Jean mindlessly opened his snapchat, curious to see what his friends were up to.

 

Sasha had a picture of her and Connie still in theatre class, they were in random costumes posing like the dorks they were, then it changed to a video with Connie lip syncing to ***Hungry Eyes*** at an unaware Sasha who was eating a donut facing away from him. He clicked on Eren's ugly picture next. He had taken a picture of the sky, apparently stuck in traffic, and a blurry one of Armin in the passenger seat followed. Apparently someone had taken Annie's phone and recorded her throwing hits at a punching bag.

 

He was about to throw his phone on the floor at the sight of Reiner's selfie - his wrestling uniform hugging him in all the wrong places while Bertholdt flexed his thigh muscles beside him - when Marco finally knocked, ten minutes later from their arranged time. He jumped up too quickly, but reminded himself to take his sweet time making it to the door. He looked through the peephole and only saw a button freckled nose looking back at him, which then turned into a questioning hazel brown eye.

 

"Jean?" He heard his muffled voice.

 

A wicked idea crossed his mind. He controlled his sly smile before opening the door.

 

Marco grinned, "Hey--"

 

"Sorry," Jean rudely cut, "'M not interested in what you're selling."

 

He shut the door on Marco's bewildered face, laughing to himself as he leaned against the door, but the silence on the other side disappointed him. He had expected the boy to knock on the door again and apologize for being late, but all he could hear was the faint sound of a plastic bag rustling.

 

"I guess you don't want all this junk you told me to get then, huh?"

 

_I wasn't being serious when I said that!_

 

Without a word he opened the door again, but didn't fail to scowl at the way the other giggled his way inside.

 

"Told you you have to try harder to get rid of me."

 

"You're like a goddamn roach."

 

He warned Marco about his shoes, then lead him to the kitchen after noticing the double bags he held in each arm. One was light with a couple of chips and drinks while the other appeared heavy and covered in tinfoil. Marco shrugged when he noticed the way Jean looked it.

 

"Mom said I can't just come over offering gas station trash," He plopped it down on the counter, "It's mushroom-spinach stuffed shells."

 

"Wow. Do, uh, do you wanna eat first?"

 

He shook his head, "Nah, I'm good. Besides this is all for you."

 

Jean wondered if his mom remembered him. He never went to his house before, or even seen the lady, but that didn't mean she didn't know about him. The kid must've ran home to her several times, telling her what the mean boy at school did to him _this_ time. There was no way she didn't know him, and yet maybe she didn't because who'd send their kid's ex-bully dinner? Unless it was poisoned. 

 

Jean shook the ungrateful thought away.

 

"Tell her I said thanks."

 

Marco chuckled, "Sure, but this is actually her thanks for helping me out."

 

"Oh." He didn't know what else to say.

 

They felt uncomfortable being silent in the kitchen. Jean went into action and refrigerated the food, hoping Marco wouldn't notice the prepared meal his own mother had made him that was on the stove. He motioned Marco to follow him upstairs to his room. If the chip bags weren't making any noise he would've thought he was alone. 

 

The wooden floors creaked until they reached his carpeted floors. He took his seat on his swivel chair and stared at the way Marco just stood at the entrance. His mouth hung open in the direction of his bed, making him feel embarrassed. Studying in the dining room would've made more sense than bringing him to such a personal space, but it felt too big down there. Too vacant.

 

"No way, you've got bunk beds?" He asked in amazement.

 

"You gonna laugh about it?"

 

"I'm not," He sat on the bottom bunk, "I'm actually pretty jealous. I always wanted one since my brother was born."

 

"It came with the house. I didn't want it when I got older, but it's one of those that you can't reassemble, so I'm stuck with it."

 

Marco bounced on it as if he was testing its sturdiness, "Why wouldn't you want it? You can make a fort down here. All you need's a blanket."

 

"How old are you again? Seven?"

 

"Close. Seventeen."

 

"Damn you're old."

 

Marco smirked, "Aren't you just a year younger?"

 

"Yeah, and if I'm too old for forts, then you definitely should be."

 

He stopped bouncing, "Why do people think we have to stop loving fun things when we get older?"

 

"Because all that crap isn't mature and adult-like."

 

"I could be the CEO of a rich company, watch cartoons in my underwear at home, and nobody would know."

 

Jean laughed, "Not with your grades, you can't."

 

The remembrance of his poor performance made Marco groan, but he wiggled out of his bookbag and sat down on the floor. Jean followed, ignoring the way the other boy smiled at him for it. He took all his failed tests out of his folder, Jean tsked disapprovingly at each one. He lost his shit when he saw one in particular that had been a five question quiz. He got all of them wrong. The only reason why he got a twenty percent on it was because of the bonus question asking who his favorite teacher was. The honest boy wrote down Dr. Zoe's name, and on the side in red ink were the words: "I'll give it to you this time", with a sad face next to it.

 

After all his tests, quizzes, and essays were skimmed and laughed at, they silently stared at anything but each other. Jean never tutored anyone before, and Marco was too afraid to tell him where to start. When he grew irritated with the weirdness, Jean worked with what was in front of him.

 

He started off explaining why he got his answers wrong, letting him ask as many questions - which were plenty - as he needed. There were a couple times where he struggled to explain why certain things meant what they were. The symbolism was something Marco would have to memorize, along with the vocabulary questions he failed. He was spending a good portion of the time making flashcards for himself, but Jean could tell he'd forget them the minute his pencil left the paper. At least it'd be somewhere in his brain.

 

It almost felt unreal the way the humming brunet sat crisscrossed in front of him. If someone would've told him months ago that Marco Bott would be in his room color coding his flashcards, he wouldn't have believed it. And yet there he was looking like a kindergartner with scissors and bright highlighters scattered all over the floor.

 

"You look like a little kid."

 

Marco seemed surprised at his words when he looked up from his handiwork, but then chuckled, "And you look like a slob."

 

"A goddamn _hot_ slob."

nbsp;

The sunlight from Jean's window was splashed across Marco's freckled face, making his eyes look unnaturally golden, "Oh yes, because who isn't attracted to anime t-shirts and messy hair?"

 

"Watch it, or I'll start charging you." He hated himself for blushing.

 

Marco put his hands together and bowed, " _Hai, sensei._ "

 

"You're so lame," Jean laughed, "Hand me some paper. You'll be stuck here 'til morning with your fucking pace." 

 

When they were finished with that, they looked over the list of short stories and poems they had to make a project out of. It could be a presentation, poster, mini play, or they could even make a short comic for the class to read. The paper mentioned it didn't have to be professional or serious - he just needed proof they read _something_. With that in mind, Marco insisted a play would be easiest, but Jean said he'd only do it if he was just the narrator while the other acted alone, not that it was a problem to Marco. The only thing on the list that caught Jean's attention was the short story _A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings_. Wings that Marco already had and could use for their advantage. 

 

He mentioned the thought to him, and Marco quickly approved. All they had to do was purchase a wig for his role. They continued to plan out how they could create other characters with just one person. Marco's eyes lingered whenever Jean cackled at his ridiculous ideas, but Jean didn't catch him. He was too busy taking in the way Marco made his guts feel cold with shame and tingly with the way one feels when they notice themselves getting more comfortable around a stranger.

 

Jean heard the boy's stomach growl after a few minutes of easy silence and cracked up at the way Marco's eyes widened in shock, as if he couldn't believe that sound just came from him. He didn't - _couldn't_ \- try to deny he was hungry, even if they had just gobbled up their chips not even five minutes ago, but Jean knew he wouldn't ask for food. Before Marco could protest, he skipped downstairs and heated up both their mother's grub.

 

It was strange, the way they both had different versions of home in the dishes right before him, and the way the smells mixed together made him feel warm. Two loving mothers caring for their lost boys made the world seem less bitter in a way. 

 

Marco was looking over his papers when he came back, two big plates on either hand, "So what'll you have? Shells or beef stew?"

 

"Is it really ok to eat in here?"

 

Jean rolled his eyes, "Duh, that's why I brought it."

 

"In that case," He wiggled his fingers, "I'll try your mom's food. It smells crazy good."

 

He tried not to feel like he was getting cheated on by his mother's cuisine when he handed it to him, but the little dance Marco made the second it touched his taste buds made him forgive it. Once his own mouth was filled with the unfamiliar pasta, he decides it'd be the only affair he'd ever have and to enjoy it all the more, he brought down his laptop from the top bed and sat it down on his chair.

 

"Movie?" Marco questioned with disbelief, mouth full of food.

 

"Movie." He responded, taking a random DVD from his desk and popping it in his computer.

 

"What about studying?"

 

"I'm pretty sure we abandoned that ship the second you started talking about ripping your shirt off to display those wings of yours. Besides, it's just a break."

 

The break was not a break. Breaks last between ten to fifteen minutes - thirty if one really wants to push it - but they went way past that. For hours and empty plates later, the home menu for _Wayne's World_ played on the monitor over and over again. But they didn't notice. The boys had passed out halfway through the movie and we're lying uncomfortably on the floor. At some point Marco even grabbed one of Jean's pillows and cuddled with it while Jean's head awkwardly rested against the wall across from the other body.

 

Soccer practice and walking the Trost streets looking for work had taken a toll on the boys. They wouldn't have woken up if it weren't for Marco's worried mother calling, his ringtone startled them both awake. Jean rotated his body to face away from him, catching a glimpse at the time on his phone before he answered. He didn't care if it was almost ten. His head felt cloudy and his neck sore, all he wanted was to quickly pass out before Marco left.

 

But he didn't possess that type of power. All he could do was fake it.

 

He pretended not to notice the way Marco's sleepy voice sounded on the phone. He pretended not to notice the sound of rustling papers being packed away or the dishes clinking together after he hung up. He pretended not to feel the freckled boy's hand lightly shaking him or the way his beef stew breath whispered a thank you and that he had to leave now.

 

But he couldn't pretend how empty he felt now. He was alone again. Next time, he decided, they'd go to his house - where he knew that this one would already be lonely by the time he'd come back and that it'd remain exactly that way throughout the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BJJ =/= Blow Job Judge  
> BJJ = Brazilian Jiu Jitsu
> 
> ps. I finally learned how to add a link, so if you wanna know what rivalry to romance thing I was talking about, it's right hur [themultifandomnerd](http://themultifandomnerd.tumblr.com/search/rivalry+to+romance) :D


	8. Colorful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time waits for no one, but you can catch up to it if you run hard enough. Everyone is privately fighting a war of their own. And beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Sunday's are an abomination and should've never been considered part of the weekend. Sure there wass no school and most people don't have to go to work, but there's always that bitter taste to it throughout the whole day that sticks to the back of your throat, serving as a reminder that tomorrow you'll have to pick up on the same bland routine and wish over and over again that it'd be the _real_ weekend again. It's a cruel and tiring cycle, and it happened to the best of people. Marco was no exception. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't allow himself to sleep until noon like his brother. He had to be up at nine in the morning to get ready to look for work again.

 

And unfortunately for him, it wasn't anywhere near that time when his phone started singing a familiar and wistful tune. His heart hammered against his ribcage as his hands roamed under his pillow, on his sides, and finally to his feet where the rectangular device somehow ended up being. If the voice of Peppino Gagliardi wasn't enough indication that his father was calling, then the lightly wrinkled freckled picture of him on his screen was.

 

"Dad?" Marco answered with a rainbow of emotions.

 

"Hey, _cucciolo_ , you sound like you've just woken up. It's seven in the morning, you should be up and cooking breakfast or something."

 

"B-Breakfast?"

 

"Yeah," He could almost see the smile on his father's face. "Oh, that takes me back. Does your mother still bake those brioches of hers? Man, I still remember those. I used to steal a couple from you boys's plates when you weren't looking. Just thinking about 'em makes my mouth water. Make sure you learn how to cook if to ever move out."

 

If Marco spoke more often to his father, he wouldn't have to feel so rushed and panicked whenever he called. He'd forgotten how talkative he was and how quickly words spilled out of his mouth, commenting about nothing important before getting to his point. He loved his father and he was glad he was finally on the phone with him, but for some reason he felt like he was about to be rejected again, and that - mixed with his usual grogginess - irritated him.

 

He laid back down on the bed, scratching his head in frustration, "It's seven in the morning? Is everything alright over there?"

 

"Besides the damn heat, we're fine. Can't go anywhere without feeling like an ant under a microscope. I bet you don't miss that from Jinae. At least that way your mother can't twist your ear like she used to when you'd shove ice down your pants."

 

Marco ignored his heart aching at the memory, "We're fine?"

 

"What?"

 

"You said _we're_ fine."

 

He paused, "Yeah, you know, me and Perdita. She's in just as much heat as the sun. Almost ripped my arm off when she saw another dog while I took her out to take a piss."

 

"Oh," He didn't like the way he was feeling. It was too early in the morning to be angry for no reason, "So why'd you call?"

 

"A man can't call his son no reason? I just heard your voicemail. I know it took me a long time to respond, but you know how busy I am," There was another pause. "How's your brother doing?"

 

_It'd be nice if you called for no reason, and yes it did take you a long time. About a month long, actually. Something could've been wrong, someone could've been hurt, and you wouldn't have known until a month later. Micah was hurt and angry. Can't parents just sense these sort of things?_

 

Marco took in a deep breath, "He's good, he just misses you. Begged us like crazy to call you every five minutes, but he's fine now."

 

"I know you boys wanna see me, but I'm an old man, you know? Me _and_ my car are old. It'd probably die on me in the middle of nowhere. I wish I could see you, too, but it's hard just scraping enough money for gas so I can go to work, imagine driving for over six hours."

 

"Well we could try going over the instead, couldn't we?" He knew too perfectly what his answer would be.

 

His father sighed, "No, I don't think so. I'll worry if you two just drive by yourselves for such a long time. You've only had your license for a couple years and Micah gets car sick easily. It'd be too risky and your mom would kill me if anything happened to you."

 

"Ok, I understand. Maybe next year?"

 

"Yeah, sure," He grew silent again, but this time for much longer than before. Marco had to look back at his phone to make sure he hadn't hung up, and after a couple of bizarre noises in the background, his gravelly voice appeared. "Listen, _cucciolo_ , I have to get going now. I'll call you when I can and I'm sorry that we won't be able to get together for the holiday's again. Definitely next year though, I promise. Let your brother know I said that, _si_? Take care, I love you, _addio_."

 

There was no time for Marco to say anything back, his father hung up as soon as he was done saying goodbye. He laid there with the phone still pressed against his ear for a while, trying to digest what they had just spoken about, but all he could conclude was that it was nothing. A big pile of nothing. He was good at that, speaking only to be heard, ignoring his parental instincts, and still making his heart break with how much he missed him.

 

_"Dad doesn't miss us."_

 

If he was brave enough, he'd send him a message saying they'd actually be meeting a lot sooner than expected, but he was glad he didn't have that courage. The brothers had decided to make it a secret to visit for Thanksgivings break, and even if Marco didn't want to admit it out loud, he knew his father would stop them from going if he told him their idea. Their father knew Marco was easiest to persuade. If he wasn't looking for minds to change, he would've called their home phone late in the afternoon like he usually did instead of calling him at seven in the damn morning. Micah would've spoken to him in that same breathless talk, then Marco would update him on his school and work life, and finally they'd give the phone to their angry mother who'd take the conversation into the kitchen, away from her boys.

 

_"Dad doesn't miss us."_

 

He got up from his bed, searched for his underwear, and walked to the bathroom. The face that looked back at him was a perfect mixture of his parents. He had his mother's tender eyes, full lips, and warm skin and his father's face shape, nose structure, and straight hair. The freckles were unavoidable, seeing as how both were covered in it. His dad used to call them the family of spots because even their Dalmatian looked like she had freckles.

 

_"Dad doesn't miss us."_

 

Micah's words repeated in his head like a scratched CD. He didn't want to believe it, he was supposed to be strong for him, make him believe that everything was alright even if they weren't all together. His family's happiness would always come first to him, and if he showed the doubt his father was causing him to think about, his brother wouldn't trust anyone anymore - especially him. If Micah lost it, then his mother would too. She was the strongest person he knew, but seeing her children hurt pained her like nothing else.

 

_No point in telling Micah dad called just to reassure us we won't be seeing him again this year._

 

Marco took care of his business in the restroom, got changed, and went outside. Trying to go back to sleep would have been hopeless at that point, so he took his father's advice to get an early start of the day. If he wasn't looking for employment right now, he'd be smoking a much needed joint to put his nerves at ease.

 

He walked down their driveway and deeply inhaled the crisp air. While mentally saying goodbye to his Tahoe, Marco strutted his way down the street. Walking was a better alternative than driving all around Trost. There was nothing near the city anyway, his last hope was in the nearby local stores that probably didn't pay as much as the others. Being picky wasn't an option for him anymore.

 

Everything was eerily quiet as he made his way out of his neighborhood. The were no cars driving by or other people making early errands like him, the only sounds he heard were from the birds mating calls and his light breathing. His eyes stayed focused on the way the sun shone behind the trees, its light making his cool face warm up. Besides the slight nausea he felt when being up too early, he didn't think there was anything more beautiful than mornings. It didn't matter how shitty the day before could've been, mornings were like the redo button on games. People got up knowing what they did wrong the day before, and with that knowledge they hopefully ended up moving ahead the next day.

 

His head was filled again with the beauty of mother nature when he became aware of whose neighborhood he was now walking across from. The smile that grew on his face surprised him, but he kept it there. He knew Jean was probably in his cozy house sleeping underneath warm blankets on the bunk beds Marco wished he could've had. But he also smiled with sadness. Growing up with a bed made for two must've felt lonely for him and it made Marco wonder if he still felt that way.

 

On his way over to his house that Friday, he prepared himself for the worst case scenario - with Jean telling him it was all a joke. Granted, he did lock him out for being late, but after that he seemed like he had forgotten that he didn't like the freckled boy. It also came to a surprise for him that they could get along so easily when nobody else was around. They probably would've been the best of friends if things hadn't ended up the way they did years ago.

 

The genuine smiles and laughter that came out of Jean were contagious. He looked forward to spending more time with him, and hopefully - freckled fingers crossed - Jean wouldn't lock him out if his grades were to improve. There were so many things he wanted to ask him, like if really was into *NSYNC like he used to be, if he could rummage through the big stacks of DVDs that are on his desk, and if he could have more of his mother's food. But there was no way he could discuss all of those trivial things while Jean took time out of his day to help him out with something important... or could he? 

 

He must've walked for almost an hour, head filled with scenarios of a potential new friend, when he finally reached the rows of stores that were barely opening up. He apologized to each one for being there before they were completely ready for business, applied, and moved on to the next. There were flower shops, bakeries, antique and thrift stores he'd never been interested in, diners, craft stores and beauty salons that weren't interested in him, and then there were tattoo parlors and smoke shops that he purposely avoided. His mother wouldn't approve of him working there - even if those two were coincidentally his favorite places.

 

The next store he was headed towards was a small convenience store he slightly knew. He looked up at the simple dark green name displayed above the wide open door: _Springer_. Connie rarely spoke about his family's little business, and whenever he did he looked bored and slightly embarrassed. "Eh, it's just like a gas station minus the gas stations," he'd say, waving off whoever asked about it. 

 

Marco looked around the cramped room, but found no one in sight. A couple fluorescent lights flickered in the corner, making him feel like he was in a horror movie, and like the clueless teenager that gets killed off for investigating, he quietly walked further inside. He looked through each row, passing canned foods, toiletries, and chips when he suddenly heard a low grunt from the last aisle where the fridges were at. If there really was a killer, he wasn't stupid enough to ask if anyone was there. Instead he carefully tiptoed his way from behind, and ever so slightly peaked to see what was waiting for him at the other side.

 

At first, he couldn't understand what he was looking at. There were crates on top of crates of milk and soda, shielding the short body from Marco's view, but the back of their familiar shaved head raised more questions than answers.

 

For all he knew, some psycho murderer could've skinned his friend alive and was now pretending to be him, and as horrible as Marco felt about thinking it, there was just no way Connie would be _working_. That would have to mean it'd be the same boy who cooked his eggs in the microwave because he claimed it was too much work frying them. A killer was more realistic, and with that running through his mind he could almost see the headlines in the next morning newspaper: _Local Boy Ignores All Signs Of A Horror Movie And Dies_.

 

_Marco, you gotta avenge your fallen friend. Just knock him down to the floor, that's your territory. Work on that new move you learned yesterday in class._

 

While carefully stepping out into the aisle to get a better look at the impostor, Marco's elbow accidentally knocked down a few bottles of soap. The high-pitched scream that shot out of Connie's throat as he whirled around caused Marco to scream as well. They frantically stared at one another, still yelling even after they recognized they weren't in any danger.

 

"C-Connie?" Marco asked, his heart beating like crazy, "Is that really you?"

 

The fear for his life was replaced by a different terror, the terror of being caught, and that made his hands go up in surrender, "I can explain."

 

"What are you... are you _working_?"

 

"It's not what it looks like. You gotta believe me!"

 

"But you're wearing a uniform and you even have a name tag--"

 

"It's a one time thing! I-I'm just here for one day!"

 

"--There's even a picture of you under the employee of the week board." He said pointing at the end of the hall where his cheesing face was in display.

 

"This... ," He gestured to himself and then the store, " ...means nothing, I swear. There's nothing going on between us."

 

Marco felt shameful with himself for doubting his friend. He shook his head with guilt, "I thought I knew you."

 

"No c'mon man, you do!" He walked up to Marco, placed both hands on his shoulders to make him sit on one of the crates. "I'll explain everything just stay right where you are!"

 

He dashed to the entrance of the store, closing and locking the glass door before slowly returning. Now that he wasn't focused on surviving a showdown with an ax murderer who didn't exist, he allowed his heart to return to its proper beat. He looked up at Connie, who was nervously walking towards him.

 

"Is it ok to lock customers out?" Marco asked as Connie sat on one of the crates.

 

"Yeah, it's cool. Dad trusted me with opening up today. He won't be in until a few hours."

 

That made him feel a bit better, "So, what's going on?"

 

Whatever Connie was trying to put into words, Marco could tell he was struggling. His lips were in a tight line and his eyebrows furrowed, making a deep crease appear between them. He'd never seen him like that before, and whatever reason he had for working there, it must've be an important one. Instead of sitting there like an idiot, he lightly nudged their knees together to break him out of his thoughts. 

 

"You know, you don't have to tell me," Marco reassuringly smiled at him, "I _am_ a little surprised that you're working, but I think it's great that you're helping your parents out."

 

He sighed a deep long sigh, "Actually it's the other way around. _They're_ helping _me_."

 

"Oh god, what did you do? Was it illegal? Is Sasha in trouble too? How much money do you guys need? I don't have much, but--"

 

"Whoa, who said anything about anything illegal, asshole," Connie laughed, "Good to know you have my back, though. But, uh, it's not that serious and Sash doesn't even know I'm doing this."

 

"She doesn't?"

 

Connie looked down at his hands, "Welp, she's pissed off at me and has been giving me the silent treatment for - quote unquote - _abandoning_ her. She knows I'm doing something, but I don't want to tell her. Not yet."

 

"I don't understand." Marco admitted. Those two always told each other everything. They've been friends since before they could even properly walk, and it must've been killing Connie hiding this from her. He was keeping this bottled up, which was probably why he was deflating with Marco now. 

 

"I'm staying here after graduation. 'M not planning on going to college. If she finds out, she'll make me change my mind and I'll be miserable there. And she... she's got me wrapped around her greasy little finger. I'd do anything for that stinking girl."

 

Marco couldn't help the blush creeping up to his face. He knew they liked each other - you'd have to be a dense fuck not to notice - but hearing Connie say it out loud in such a passionate expression made him feel joy for the couple. He could even see how he was suffering from Potato Girl withdrawal, jittering and bouncing his leg like an addict while he waited for Marco to say something.

 

"Why don't you just tell her why you want to stay. Don't you think she'll understand? I mean, she does know you best."

 

He shook his head, "It's because I know her so well that I'm not telling her. We know all the people that come in the store and most are nice, except for those young fucks. I get to watch TV when we don't have customers, I get to eat free junk food, _free_ Marco. And one day I'll own this little dump and I'm actually excited about that. Either I give in and tell her and leave, or she'll stubbornly stay. Unlike her, school isn't my thing."

 

"So do your parents approve of your plans?"

 

"Not really. They keep trying to change my mind, but I convinced them to let me come around every once in awhile. That way when I'm full time I'll know everything."

 

It wouldn't be long until they graduated, so Marco understood the panic in his eyes perfectly well. Even he didn't know whether or not he was planning on continuing his education. But unlike Connie, his options were to work for someone for the rest of his life or pay off his college debt for the rest of his life. Neither were appealing. If he could make up a third option it'd be to move to a different planet.

 

"Whenever you decide to tell her your plans, you should tell her how you feel, that way she won't kill you on the spot."

 

He grimaced, "Yeah, I'm not telling her 'bout that either."

 

"What?" Marco gasped, his dreams of becoming an uncle disappearing.

 

"C'mon, man, look at her. She's going places, she's not the sharpest tool in the shed, but she's got enough common sense and talent to take her far away from this shit town. I'm not good enough for her."

 

"You guys are perfect for each other! Doesn't it hurt to not say anything?"

 

"Like hell. I'm an idiot, but I have eyes. I see the way she looks at me, man. It's like---"

 

His voice was interrupted by the weak knocking on the door. Connie swiftly got up to let in an old lady who was asking if they were open yet. Marco got up as well, taking in the way his friend seemed to naturally fit in and assist the woman, but as natural as he looked, he was unnatural in Marco's memory. He wasn't the loud, joking Connie he knew. It frightened him to think that they were all really getting older and soon would be separated from one another, and yet he was happy that at least one of his friends knew what they wanted to do with their life and felt right about their choice.

 

Marco waved at Connie as he passed him by the canned aisle, "See ya at school."

 

"Yeah. Oh! We're not hiring here, but the coffee shop down the street is desperate as fuck."

 

They gave each other knowing smiles: one a thank you and the other a promise to keep a secret. The chime of the bell did little to bring Marco's head out of the clouds. The gentle morning sky was now a harsh blue and the temperature had risen slightly, but noticeably. His eyes stayed glued to the beige sidewalk infected by left behind bubblegum. The world was a beautiful place, it was colorful and just as bright as it was dark, but it could also be unfair. While the happiness of love was a bloody red, the timing and circumstances was a bruised purple.

 

_Love._

 

Marco laughed at the word. He had never experienced it,and didn't really care much for it, but he did love seeing how goofy and pink people became when the feeling enveloped them. He'd never had a real boyfriend either. Or at least one that's lasted more than two weeks. When they'd complain about how much he worked or spent time with his family, he'd run. His favorite boys were the ones that are just passing through Trost to get to a better destination. Pretending to be in love for one day could fill him up for a whole year. 

 

Love wasn't important when he had to go look for a way to provide for his mom and brother. He didn't have time for it in his schedule, but he knew he'd welcome it with open arms if he were to ever feel it. The way his mother had described it when he was young during the divorce only confused him further, but now that he was older he understood how beautifully tragic it was capable of being. She had been pacing around the house holding in her tears when she told him: 

 

_"It's like you're a scattered jigsaw puzzle and they're the players. They put different pieces of you together, making you see things you didn't know were there before. You know you're not perfect - with all those little bumps and everything - and they know that and yet they still feel joy when they see you, and I mean completely see you, not just your physicality. You become whole because of them, that's how you know they're the one. And they have the power to tear you down or keep you just as you are. Your father chose to take me apart."_

 

The old coffee shop looked as depressed as he suddenly felt. Its faded yellow paint from outside was peeling like cheap nail polish, and the windows were scratched and blurry with age. When he stepped foot inside its brightly lit walls, the stench of bacon and too sweet syrup instantly hit his nose. While noticing the red booth seats rips and tears that were covered in silver duct tape, his shoes stuck to the sticky floors as he walked up to the wooden counter. The middle-aged woman behind it looked relieve when he asked if they were hiring, almost begging him to leave his information and to be expecting a call later that day.

 

_Suck it up. You could be in love with a best friend and not be able to express it. You could be broken to pieces by someone who once said they loved you. You could be a liar and feel no guilt when speaking to your children. Just suck it up._

 

\---------------------------

 

"Hmm," Sasha pondered with one hand on her hip while the other stayed on her chin, "I think he needs more paint. What do you guys think?"

 

Mikasa and Krista stopped putting blue handprints on each other to inspect Sasha's handiwork, which he couldn't exactly see. He was sitting in front of Sasha's mirrored vanity, glancing at the reflected faces his friends were giving his back. She had filled in his tattooed wings - half blue and half white like the school's colors - for the soccer game. But apparently it wasn't enough for her.

 

Marco looked at the navy blue lines under his eyes, then down at his bare chest, "Do I have to be shirtless for this?"

 

"Yes! How else are you going to show some school spirit? Everyone does this during games, haven't you ever been to one?" Sasha asked as she pulled him up to further inspect him.

 

"Actually no, I haven't."

 

Mikasa dipped her palms in one of the shallow trays surround by newspaper, "Everyone will be half naked, so don't worry, you'll fit right in."

 

"But that's what worries me. Krista please help." He half joked.

 

"Uh-uh," She sang, "It's a tradition."

 

The girls began to leave different sized handprints on his torso. Sasha playfully groped his pecs, getting the amazing idea to do that to the others and then on her own breasts with a maniacal laughter. He wasn't too sure how he felt about letting everyone see him in just jeans and Toms while his upper body was exposed, but most importantly he didn't understand how the three girls in front of him could just be in sports bras and shorts with paint barely covering their skin.

 

"Ok picture time!" Sasha wiped her hands on a dirty towel and pulled out her phone from her bra.

 

"Make it quick, Armin said he already got us a spot." Mikasa ordered, but she wasn't paying attention.

 

"Alright, Marco you gotta bend down a little 'cause we're all short. Krista do that cute 'lil peace sign you always do. And Mika, I'm loving that fierce look you're giving me, keep it."

 

Her hands extended as far as they could so they'd all fit in the rectangle space. They didn't have time to view the masterpiece since Mikasa was pushing them out the door and down the spiral staircase with determination. Sasha's parents weren't home again, which slightly disappointed Marco. He wanted to formally apologize for breaking their cookie jar all that long ago, but Sasha had reassured him over and over again that they hadn't even noticed it was gone.

 

The darkness outside was dimly illuminated by the neighborhood's street lamps, making them seem more like a tribe all set for a celebration rather than teenagers getting ready to curse and yell at a sports game. He couldn't believe it was already the end of September, but the way the chilly air made his nipples embarrassingly harden did a great job at reminding him.

 

He looked up at the night sky. A far away flash of lightening worried him. He hadn't brought an extra change of clothes, and getting sick was the last thing he wanted since his mother always warned him about getting pneumonia.

 

"Do we _have_ to ride separately?" Sasha asked as she opened the driver's door, Mikasa already inside and ready to go while Krista took her spot in the back.

 

"Yes we do, I'll meet you guys there."

 

Before she could protest, he quickly climbed into his vehicle and turned it on. He watched them head out first, then followed.

 

Sasha's original plan was to have everyone over and participate in the so called tradition, but for obvious reasons, the three soccer players couldn't do it. Armin had wanted to find a front row spot so they could have the best view. Nobody really minded where they sat, but everyone knew Armin loved watching Eren play, so they let him be. Ymir was held up at her new job and had asked Reiner for a ride, and it came to no surprise that Annie would rather go with him than be around paint and Sasha, but for some reason Connie was also with them. He figured she was still giving him the silent treatment.

 

A nearby honk broke him out of his thoughts. The sun was dead, but the night was alive with bustling cars and a couple neon lights from bars and clubs. Green, pink, purple, yellow and baby blue colors whirled around him as fast as the wind shuffled his hair and pinched his cold cheeks. Of course he'd have his windows down even without a shirt.

 

The weed in his car was nicely tucked under the passenger seat hidden like an affair. There was no way he'd let his friends ride in his car or he in theirs while he was holding. The possibility of getting caught was there and if it happened - which it almost did once - he didn't want anyone else going down with him.

 

Ymir told him not to bring a lot, since she'd be making drinks again. He didn't understand why his friends would want to go through all the headaches and nausea they had left in the past, but then again, he didn't know what troubles they were trying to rapidly drown. Connie sure had surprised him when he opened up about his problem with Sasha, and maybe they, too, were trying to have a few hours of happiness before getting back to reality. He'd be a hypocrite if he tried to stop them since he kept his own issues about his family to himself. He needed a moment of relaxation and tonight he was going to get it.

 

Even with a new job he was still planning on getting high, but luckily for him they didn't do drug tests. Later that Sunday when he had returned from the streets, he received a call from an old man asking if he really was interested in working at the worn out diner, his voice full of desperation and hope. Marco wanted to wait for more calls, but the man at the end of the phone was serious enough to give him every other day off since he was still in school. He knew he wouldn't be so lucky with the rest of the places he applied to, so he accepted and would be starting in October.

 

He stopped at a red light with Sasha's car still in front of him. He glanced down at his arm that rested on his open window. His elbow was numb and pink with the harsh wind.

 

Pink like the way Jean's face would turn when he'd tease him and he wouldn't know how to retort. He had noticed other colors on his face as the week went by. Some days he'd be pale with deeper shades of purple under his eyes, Marco didn't have the heart to wake him from his long naps during second period. Their project wasn't making any progress and neither were his grades. While he was half asleep, Jean promised to fix both problems when they'd start up their tutoring session again, but Marco just giggled at it. After all, who would believe a person's promise after being used to having them broken?

 

When they finally arrived at the school's parking lot, it was packed with bodies and metal machines. People were sitting on the hoods of their cars speaking to each other, some smoking cigarettes and sneaking alcohol in their pants or sweaters to give them the only rush the town could offer. They never came to these games because they supported their team, they came just to be around friends and to scream at the top of their lungs.

 

After ten minutes of searching for a parking spot, Marco finally settled for one that was far away. He had lost sight of Sasha, but Mikasa easily spotted him after walking a few paces in the crowd. Sasha practically bounced with excitement as they made their way through the ocean of people.

 

"See, we don't stand out!" Sasha exclaimed as they passed bodies covered in warrior paint.

 

She was right. Some had handprints like they did, but most had words ranging from an encouraging _Go Maria High!!_ to a hopeless _We're #2!_. There were girls with ribbons tied to their pony tails like cheerleaders, boys without shirts and there was even one person with a blue morph suit. The large foamy pair of wings that was their school's mascot was dancing when they entered the field, with more bodies and voices welcoming them.

 

Mikasa had her phone to her ear, carefully listening to Armin's directions to where he was at, when she grabbed hold of Krista's hand, who then grabbed Marco's who grabbed Sasha's. They laughed at the weird stares they received from the opposing school's kids, and happily let themselves be tugged by their motherly friend. After stepping on a few toes and smelling other people's B.O., they found Armin's pale arm waving at them. He was wearing one of the school's t-shirts with a ribbon holding half his hair up, blue and white numbers on his puffed cheeks.

 

"It's about to start!" He announced with excitement when they were close enough.

 

The rest of the gang were sitting behind the blond, legs outstretched on the bleaches in front of them so no one else could take the seats. Reiner and Connie were shirtless, but each wore half a pair of wings that completed the other with random doodles on their skin. Annie and Ymir were the only ones in regular clothing, mildly bored, but Ymir instantly straightened up when she saw Krista.

 

"Thank god for school spirit." She said as Krista sat directly in front of her, shoving her feet away and pretending she hadn't heard her. 

 

Marco stared in worry at the view before him. The grass on the field was more yellow than it was green, and some of the lights that surrounded them were burned out, making the opposing team that much more monstrous looking. Both teams had been lined up on opposite ends, some stretching and others speaking while they waited for the announcer to call out their names. Marco wanted to look for his friends, but couldn't tear his eyes away from the Titans.

 

They were from a different city district but they might as well been classified as a different species. The boys appeared more like kids who hit puberty straight out of the womb. Their bodies were built like a cliché football team type, with broad shoulders, meaty legs and thick stomachs and they were tall - taller than Bertholdt who was probably the tallest person in school.

 

If that wasn't enough of an advantage, their school was a rich one, which meant they had proper equipment for practice, a more organized conditioning schedule and more than one coach. Ymir had transferred from that school during her freshman year, telling them stories about what some of the wealthy people did to stay on top, so he was aware that they were on different levels. But finally being able to see the difference was a totally different thing from hearing stories. It was no wonder Maria High always lost to them.

 

A man with a microphone ordered everyone to be quiet and take their seats, then proceeded to announce the enemy's school followed by the team members names as they took their places on the yellow-green grass. Half the stadium cheered with pride. Marco secretly boo'd inside his head while Reiner and Connie screamed it for them.

 

"And now Maria High!" Said the announcer.

 

Marco knew their team sucked, he'd always hear a few people complain about it throughout the years, but he wasn't prepared for all the half-assed cheers coming from behind them as the microphone man belted out the names of their own members. He had to look at his friend, who seemed unaware of the lack of support from their school, then behind him to the distracted crowd.

 

He leaned in and whispered to Krista, "Why isn't anyone paying attention?"

 

Her blue eyes seemed surprised for a second, "Oh, this happens every year. The only people who care to watch are friends, family and boyfriends or girlfriends."

 

"Then why come at all?"

 

"Who knows, but I wish they could yell some words of encouragement instead of booing like they always do. They're going to need the motivation."

 

And she was right. During the first half of the game, the other team did nothing to seem intimidating, only teasing them with the ball, but Maria High still wasn't able to score any goals. It was during the second half that Marco immediately saw how unfair and privileged the other team was. They played dirty and the old referee looked too afraid to call them out on it. The boys wore sadistic smiles as the ran like wild animals towards the opposite end of the field, practically knocking down whoever came close enough.

 

Eren had tried his best to stop one of the man-children from making a goal, but all it earned him was a clash their legs together, leaving him rolling on the brittle grass in pain, which was then followed by another Titan "accidentally" stepping on his hand as he ran by. Armin and Mikasa had stood up and called out the foul, but they did nothing and continued with the game.

 

He could practically hear Mikasa growl. She almost made it out of the bleachers before Armin grabbed her and cooled her down the best he could.

 

"Eren, Bert, Jean! Kick their ass!" She yelled. 

 

The rest of them stood up along side the two as heavy raindrops hit their cold skin. The game was at 0 to 7. There was no way they could win, and they all knew that, but hearing important people cheering you on even after you know you're going to fail could give you a new sense of drive. So that's what they did.

 

They all yelled together, sounding like witches casting spells as a roll of thunder played in the background, "Maria High!" _Clap, clap!_ "Maria High!" _Clap, clap!_ "Maria High!"

 

Marco searched the area for Jean. When he found him, his mouth was open from exhaustion... or was it shock from how crazy they all must look being the only ones chanting in the rain with paint running down their bodies? He didn't know, but he was happy to be a part of the cheer like the way Jean had been for him during his match. They saw the boys laughing while they shook their heads, but there was a flicker of new determination on their faces that made them feel like what they were doing was worth the effort.

 

\-------------------------

 

"Ready? One. Two. Go!" Eren shouted. The three boys threw their heads back and with one gulp finished their shot, slamming the glass down on the kitchen counter.

 

After the game finished, Ymir surprised everyone by saying they'd have their little get together at her place rather than Sasha's. It was too much work hauling so many bottles in her car that it was the most logical thing for her to do. She said her mother was spending the weekend with one of her boyfriends, so there'd be no problem worrying about parents walking in on them while they got trashed.

 

She had passed around a few towels to let her soaking friends dry off, some having to share with others since there wasn't enough. All the paint on their bodies were gone or smeared onto their clothing, but everyone was grateful to be in a warm place. And Marco was happy with the cloud of weed around his head, forgetting about how insecure he felt about being shirtless for the rest of the night since he had left it in Sasha's room.

 

"One more time. Two. Three. Go!"

 

Marco looked around the small apartment while he sat on the floor. He didn't remember it looking so vacant. All it had was a coffee table, two couches and a lamp at the corner near her balcony. There were no photographs, dead flowers in vases, or even a TV like there used to be. He thought it was probably nothing to worry about and turned his attention to the depressed trio.

 

"Ok, ok, one more. Go!"

 

The boys had showered and changed back at school. Their comfortable clothes did nothing to comfort their broken spirit. That was the only reason Mikasa was letting them drink as many shots as they did, but she stopped them after their third, pulling them to sit with the rest of the group around the coffee table.

 

Marco got a whiff of Jean's breath as he sat next to him, pulling his knees to his chest like his own, "Ymir, what the fuck happened to your TV?"

 

"It was shitty like your face so we had to get rid of it."

 

Connie groaned from beside Marco, "There's no music, no strobe lights to dance with, no nothing. There's nothing to doooo."

 

"Sure there is," Ymir stood on her knees to place her empty beer bottle on the center of the empty table, "We can play spin the bottle."

 

"Hell no. Gross. We _know_ each other." Said Annie. Everyone agreed while Ymir mumbled under her breath.

 

"How about we play spin the bottle but instead of kissing we ask each other truth or dare questions?" Armin suggested.

 

"Smart _and_ gorgeous." Eren hiccuped.

 

Mikasa rolled her eyes, "You start since you came up with the idea."

 

The group moved closer to each other, half were tipsy and half were high, but they were all bored and itching to do something with as much thrill as they could squeeze out of.

 

Armin delicately spun the brown bottle. The sound of the continuous clinking of it on the hard wooden surface made the way Jean softly complain about Marco's shoulders go unnoticed, but even if he had heard him he'd ignore it. From what they told him, Jean was a lightweight when it came to drinking and he was even more of a shit talker when drunk.

 

"Reiner!" Armin smiled, "Truth or dare?"

 

He pondered for a second, blowing smoke out of his nostrils, "Truth. I am an open book."

 

"Ok, you don't have have to answer if it makes you uncomfortable, ok? But do you have a crush on anyone right---"

 

"Yes. Yes I do. Probably the biggest crush of my _life_. Alright my turn."

 

Sasha huffed, "You can't just leave us hanging like that. Tell us who it is!"

 

Reiner shook his finger with one hand as he spun the bottle with another, "Gotta wait until it's on me again... Con man! Truth or dare?"

 

"Dare." He scoffed then took a long sip of his cup.

 

"I dare you to get me the bag of chips that I saw in the kitchen."

 

Ymir yelled, "Hey, those are mine!"

 

Marco laughed at his friends, ignoring all his anxieties like the way some parents ignored their children's needs. He let the smoke fill him up with nothing, only listening to the way Connie made Eren confess how long he went without showering - an astonishing seven days - and loving how confident Bertholdt sang the chorus of Barbie Girl. Marco was gone after a few more drags, but the modulated voice besides him brought him back down.

 

"Can I at least hear my options? Please?" Jean drunkenly asked Mikasa.

 

"That wouldn't be fair."

 

"Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease--" 

 

"Alright, alright! If you choose truth, I'll ask if you've ever had a crush on any of us before. If you choose dare---"

 

"Dare it is!"

 

She gave him the Grinch smile, "I dare you to spar with either Reiner or Marco. I'd add Annie, but that'd be like making a house kitten go against a wild tiger."

 

"So my options are either getting squished to death by muscle meat or kill Marco in a fit of shitty giggles?"

 

Marco tried to look hurt, but it just caused him to laugh because it was probably true.

 

"See what I mean? There's no way in hell he can fight, _moi_."

 

"You talk a lot of shit for someone who---" Connie burped, "---has zero fighting skills."

 

"I don't need to know how to fight. I'm a soccer player---"

 

"Shitty soccer player." Eren corrected, but Jean ignored him.

 

"---which means I have legs of steel. My thighs could crush your head, Bott."

 

The freckled boy stared at Jean with amusement, "I wouldn't call having my head between someone's legs a fight."

 

Jean turned pinker than he already was and inched closer to his face, "Fine, I'll show ya a fight. C'mere we're doing this!"

 

He stood up, handing whoever was near him his toxic drink then walked out to a less crowded area in the living room. Marco happily followed, pulling up his pants a little as he bent his knees and suck his hands out near his chest when they were face to face. 

 

"Don't hurt each other." Krista begged, but with amusement in her tone.

 

Annie chuckled, "Hurt each other."

 

There was no way Jean could fight. He was already swaying and they were just standing there, but his face was hard with his pride on the line. Marco just wanted to laugh at how serious he was taking this, it was almost cute. But he shook his head and concentrated as much as he could. He wanted to take care of Jean like the way he took care of him when he got wasted at Sasha's place and choking him out would be the opposite of doing that.

 

He took a step forward, "Tap out if it hurts, ok?"

 

Marco only allowed Jean to smirk. He quickly, but gently, took Jean down with his drunken back to the floor. His body was limp like a puppet, making it too easy for the stoned boy to get inside Jean's guard and press his hands on his hips so he wouldn't squirm his way out. His black stringy hair came down seconds later on Jean's warm belly and dragged it up passed his chest and right under his chin, forcing his face to go upwards and only stopping there so he wouldn't choke with the pressure on his neck. Next he grabbed hold of one of his flailing arms, making it into a ninety degree angle.

 

"Tell me if it hurts." Marco repeated as he twisted his wrist into a lock.

 

"Hurts!" He whimpered.

 

He let go of Jean, laughing as he got out from between his legs and rolled on the floor with satisfaction. He looked up at the drunk boy who was angrily sitting up and rubbing his wrist, pouting like a child who wasn't able to get the expensive toy he told his friends he'd be getting.

 

"That was gay and dangerous." Slurred Bertholdt, making the group laugh.

 

Marco had expected Jean to avoid him for the rest of the night after that - or at least yell at him for following him around the small apartment - but he was happy to find that he didn't. It was a little weird at first, but drunk Jean was much easier to make conversation with than with sober Jean.

 

A few of them were sitting around Ymir when they took their break from drinking, listening to the way she bashed on the woman who she was currently working for. She talked about how cleaning empty houses was like wiping someone else's ass, but it had a good enough pay to keep her there and it made Marco proud that she hadn't given her a piece of her mind.

 

When Jean complained about feeling too hot and nauseous, he took him outside where Mikasa and Armin were humbly speaking.

 

"Wanna fight?" Jean whispered to him as they watched the rain pour down from the balcony.

 

"No," Laughed Marco, "Why do you want to? Didn't I hurt you?"

 

"Fuck yeah, but I deserved it... and deserve more. C'mon let's go."

 

Marco pat the top of his head, "Jean, you're not making any sense."

 

The drunk boy almost opened his mouth to explain, a pained expression hitting his face then disappearing like a heavy cloud covering the sun, but apparently he hadn't been drunk enough to speak what was on his mind, "Ok, we'll fight later."

 

Marco smiled at him with a roll of his eyes, leading him back into the cozy apartment since the chilly air was starting to get to him.

 

In the hopes of making Jean forget about sparring again, he let him roam free with equally drunk Sasha for a long while. Connie was now watching over her as well, with need in his eyes. Marco wanted to ask how he was feeling, but there was a time and place for everything. Being around that many people was not one of those times. Instead he pulled Jean out of her grasp and into the restroom, claiming that he looked like he was about to puke again when he yelled at him, but in reality Marco just wanted to give the couple more time with each other.

 

When Jean had forgotten about his little stunt, the two slipped into easy conversation. They spoke about how there were probably aliens living in the ocean while Jean scavenged for more beer in the kitchen. They joked about how they'd eat sunset clouds like if they were cotton candy if they could fly while Krista angrily dragged Ymir into a room, going unnoticed by the group. They shared their favorite *NSYNC songs while Marco was slowly coming down from his high.

 

It was around three in the morning when the boys began to realize the apartment was a lot more quiet than it had been before. Bertholdt and Reiner had gone off for a walk and weren't back yet while the rest were either passed out or whispering tiredly to one another, ready to dream.

 

Jean and Marco were laying under the small dining room table since they had been kicked out of the living room - thanks to Jean - for having a couple more sparring sessions and accidentally spilling someone's vodka on the sofa. They were looking up at the scribbles of what a young Ymir must've done back when she was innocent, only listening to Jean's instrumental music that came from his phone. The freckled boy's high was replaced by heavy tiredness, heavier than the gravity you felt after jumping off a trampoline. He yawned as he turned his head on the side to let sleep take over him, but the immediate poke of a finger to his nipple made him squeal in fear.

 

"Jean! What was that for?" He hissed, propping himself on his elbows, but Jean didn't meet his eyes to give an explanation. His tipsy gaze stayed on his chest with a hint of curiousness playing on his eyebrows as he poked him again.

 

"I just noticed your nipples are brown. I used to think brown nipples made chocolate milk." He mumbled, then fell asleep.

 

Marco's eyes went wide with tender bewilderment. A warm chuckle rumbled out of his throat as he laid back down next to his snoring friend, staring at him in wonder. His light ash-brown hair was a mess and a bit of sweat that smelled like beer stuck to the sides of his temples. The bags under his closed eyes were almost as dark as the lashes that curled the way flowers did when they were blocked by bushes and searching for the sun.

 

A single thought ran through his mind before letting sleep win.

 

_Yeah... almost cute._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shut up Marco you know he's fucking cute!  
> Anyways, I just wanted to talk about bjj for a bit. I really love the sport and wish I could still be learning. That's why I added martial arts to the fic. (10/10 would recommend watching some YouTube videos). A lot of people - specifically dudes - do say it's a "gay" sport because of the close and personal contact it requires, but they don't know what they're missing out on. It's brutally beautiful and ugh I love it.
> 
> p.s. [His dad's ringtone if you're interested](http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=z-CDW4q8HC8&feature=youtu.be)


	9. Dappled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are three types of speaking : when you trip on your words, when you don't know when to shut the fuck up, and when you don't know what you said even after you've said it. Cool sweaters for cool weather. And sometimes friends distract us so smoothly that we don't even realize they've done it.

"I did _what_ to your _who_?"

 

Marco shyly laughed, covering his paper over his face, "You really don't remember? I mean, I guess you were pretty trashed."

 

"It's Sunday and I'm still feeling the effect. Now repeat what you said 'cause I don't think I heard you right."

 

The boys were in Marco's room - Jean comfortably sitting on a bean bag chair while Marco laid on his bed - with papers and pens surrounding them. Their language arts project was due on Wednesday and if they wanted to finish it by then they were going to have to start getting serious. If it weren't for their dwindling time, Jean would've been at home with his mother watching TV.

 

"I-I don't think it's that important. Maybe we should just keep summarizing these paragraphs."

 

Jean scowled at him, but didn't argue any further. His memory of Friday's hang out was absolutely hazy and the parts that weren't were just black. He remembers watching rain from Ymir's balcony, Sasha's flushed face close to his and doodles underneath the table where he woke up from. He had been shocked to see a shirtless Marco sleeping beside him, shivering like a dog and huddling one of the wooden legs for warmth, but after Armin saw him freaking out he explained why they'd been kicked out from the living room and made to sleep all prison-like.

 

He still couldn't believe he'd been dared by Mikasa, of all people, to fight with Marco in front of everyone. They said he'd lost and he was glad he couldn't remember it, it'd make him cringe for the rest of the year if he could. After Eren and Reiner so enthusiastically explained in detail how he went down, he realized he didn't feel at all bothered by it. It _had_ been embarrassing that there was an audience, but if there was something he was always asking for it was for Marco to punch him in the face. Hurting his wrist wasn't the same as bone hitting bone, but it'd have to do for now.

 

Since there had been no food at Ymir's apartment, the group had quickly dispersed after an hour they'd woken up. Bertholdt and Eren had been lucky enough to have someone walk or drive them home, but Jean had to wait it out before he could use his own car. He was eventually left alone with just Krista and Ymir, almost regretting not ditching his car and riding with Marco or Sasha when he realized the two girls were angry at each other. He tried distracting himself by sending Marco a message through Instagram, letting him know he'd be at his house the next day to work on their project. If only it could've been enough to distract him from the anger he felt about the night before.

 

Playing against the Titans had teared him up an awful lot and just thinking about it made him want to start drinking again right there in Marco's room. Their coach had yelled at them until his face turned red, banging his fists on the lockers after every curse word left his saliva-spitting mouth. They all knew they were going to lose, but the man needed to vent and try to look like he had expected something different.

 

He didn't particularly care if they lost or not, it was the fact that they've been humiliated by not scoring even _one_ single goal, and that sure as hell angered him. It was their last game of their high school life. It would've been a great memory if they could've scored _something_.

 

"Poor angel," Marco said to himself, shoving the paper closer to his face.

 

Jean shifted in the bumpy chair, "You're still summarizing? I finished my half like ten minutes ago. Lemme see what you have."

 

Half of Marco's face slowly revealed itself from behind the paper, and with the faintest movement he shook his head. Jean nodded, telling him with his expression to _"come hither"_ , but that just earned him another shake. After giving Marco his best glare, the freckled boy sighed as he crawled to the end of his bed, facing Jean. He looked slightly embarrassed after taking his sweet time handing it to him - he understood why after reading the messy scribbles on his paper.

 

"Jean please stop laughing," He begged as Jean slid down from the plushy bean bag chair to the floor.

 

"'M sorry," He breathed, "It's just - it's like a third grader wrote this. I don't understand it, are we reading the same thing?"

 

"Yes, you jerk."

 

He supported his weight onto one arm, appreciating how fuzzy and soft Marco's rug felt underneath his palm.

 

"Alright, stop pouting. I'll help you out since this is the hardest part we have to do. Let's get this over with so we can start with the fun part."

 

Marco perked up, "The costume?"

 

"The costume." He said with a smirk.

 

And with that Jean began watering down the paragraphs while Marco sat next to him and helped the best he could - by agreeing with everything he said and answering the occasional rhetorical questions he asked.

 

It was early in the afternoon and Marco's family was still out shopping for food. Jean had been happy to find that his mom hadn't been home when he came knocking on their door. He couldn't explain how frightened he felt about meeting her.

 

Before Marco purchased a car, Krista - who was the first to get one - would drive the group around, picking them up and squishing them together for joy rides. Jean would only get a couple eye fulls of his little brother on those rare days Marco would join them. And although he was many years his junior, he was still afraid of meeting him too.

 

_Siblings tell each other everything, right? Things they'd never tell their parents? So there's no way that that kid doesn't know who I am. There's a chance his mother doesn't, but his brother definitely does._

 

It didn't help knowing that the kid was in karate. Jean had payed close attention to the museum of pictures as the excited boy lead him to his room and caught a dozen different shots of him in intimidating poses. He also saw some of Marco when he was in grade school, when his hair was side parted rather than split down the middle like how it was now. A strong wave of guilt washed over him, making his face harden at the words on his paper.

 

"Jean? You alright?"

 

He swallowed down the urge to bombard him with questions, "I'm fine. Let's just try and finish."

 

_How are you so fucking nice? How does that work? What's wrong with you? What's wrong with me?_

 

As the seconds ticked by, Jean felt more and more compelled to leave. He didn't feel right being there in Marco's room as if they were good friends and everything were perfectly normal between them. It made his skin feel sensitive and his heart began to race. He wanted to get out that very moment, but before he could come up with some bullshit excuse to escape his guilt, they heard the front door slam open.

 

"Marco! We've got bags!"

 

He stood up with a smile, "I'll be right back."

 

"No!... No, I'll come with."

 

_I can't let them think I'm more of a piece of shit than I already am._

 

If would've been dangerous to leave him all alone in the middle of the room. He would've jumped out the window and run all the way home if he could ignore what his mother taught him about being polite in a stranger's house hard enough. His hands were trembling as they made their way downstairs and out into the driveway where the two other bodies were speaking.

 

"Mom," Marco said, grabbing her attention from the open trunk to them, "This is my friend, Jean. He's the one I'm working with on the language arts project like I told you about."

 

The word friend made his insides wither as the petite woman looked at him with surprise. Her big eyes were far too familiar, as well as her lips, as she smiled at him the same way Marco had not too long ago. Her skin was a beautiful brown and it was peppered with just as much freckles as her children's and her long hair swayed as she took a step forward to greet his shaking hand.

 

"Is that your real hair color?" Suddenly asked the boy who blocked his mother's path. He was juggling a few bags on one hand while the other pinched the tip of Jean's hair. His skin and freckles were noticeably lighter than his family's, but he had the same smiling lips as them.

 

"Micah!" Marco and his mom yelled together, but the boy just laughed then hurried inside.

 

Jean stiffened, "It's fine. I get asked that a lot."

 

At least that was true, except it had never happened that quickly after meeting someone for the first time and it _did_ piss him off just a little when they asked. It dawned on him that Micah most likely did know about the way he used to torment his brother. His way of getting back at him now was making fun of his appearance like the way he'd done to Marco. It made perfect sense to his paranoid mind.

 

The kisses Marco's mother planted on his cheeks broke his line of thought, her fingers smudged away the excess lipstick it stubbornly left, "I'm sorry about him. I don't understand what goes through his mind sometimes. It's nice to finally meet you. I wanted to thank you for helping Marco."

 

He blushed, "No problem lady, I mean ma'am - er - Ms. Bott. Oh! I guess not since-since there's no, um, Mr. Bott.. I'm sorry."

 

"It's fine," She laughed, "Call me Camilla."

 

They unloaded the trunk, Jean ignored how Marco held in his own laughter at the way he stumbled on his words, and with one trip they had everything on the kitchen counters. He helped them take everything out of the bags, feeling way out of place when all three began talking in Italian.

 

"Marco," She called to her son when almost everything was away, "Have you fed our guest?"

 

He sheepishly turned to Jean, "You hungry?"

 

Ms. Camilla grabbed a brown cloth bag that had been mixed with the plastic ones, speaking as she removed two plates from within it, "Marco's auntie made us some stromboli slices. They're fucking _delizioso_."

 

"Mom, you used the wrong word to censor in our language." Sighed Marco, as if it weren't the first time it happened.

 

Micah laughed while he grabbed a slice, "Mom likes to pretend she never curses. If you stick around long enough you'll hear her say the most colorful things, I promise you."

 

"I am so sorry, Jean! I work around men and their choice of words just rub off on me," She said with an innocent smile, then grabbing a plate and handing it to Marco, "Here, _caro_ , take this to your room so you can continue with your work."

 

"Hey, what about me?" Micah whined.

 

"These guys actually study, so they need the extra fuel. If you do your work I'll let you take the other plate while I get started on dinner."

 

"Deal!"

 

She smiled at her boy as he happily skipped upstairs to his room. Marco was ready to head up as well before she stopped them. Her face was soft, but there was a tint of protectiveness over her big eyes that made Jean's stomach churn.

 

"Leave the door wide open, ok?"

 

Marco's face turned pink, " _Si, ma._ "

 

She smiled, "Ok, go be productive. Oh, but before you go, Jean, could you wait a little while so I could make drinks for you two?"

 

"S-Sure." He stuttered.

 

Something was telling him she wanted some alone time with him and he wasn't the only one that was thinking the same thing. Marco wasn't good at masking the pleading look he was giving his mother, and when Jean caught him staring, he gave him the fakest smile he'd ever given him. And as much as Marco wanted to disobey his mother and stick around, he couldn't. He left Jean in the kitchen all alone with the unreadable woman.

 

He watched her humming to herself as she grabbed two glass cups from the shelf and filled them with ice. He tried to focus on the way the light blue kitchen walls were covered in more pictures of what seemed to be like family in Italy, but they'd dart right back at the way her small hands poured juice inside each glass. He wanted to watch her until she said what was really on her mind. He didn't know if she would curse him out for calling her Ms. Bott or really just provide him with drinks, and not knowing frightened him. She moved closer to him, placing the cups on the counter.

 

"So how have you been, Jean?" She asked, sounding like they were old friends who haven't spoken for over ten years.

 

"I'm fine." He lied.

 

"Are you and Marco getting along now?"

 

The word _now_ threw him off. His eyes widened at her smile. He wondered if she knew about everything he'd done to her son. He stood there speechless, but what could he really say to her? He wanted to apologize like how he always wanted to apologize to Marco, but the words were stuck in his throat out of fear that it wouldn't be enough. And deep down he knew it wasn't.

 

"Are you alright?" She asked, placing a hand on his arm.

 

"I-uh-I'm... "

 

_I'm so fucking sorry._

 

" _Carino_ , what's the matter? Did I scare you with my vulgar language?"

 

"No! No, I'm... " He made the mistake of looking at her coffee filled eyes. They were warm and comforting and concerned, making him feel like he was allowed to tell her how bad he felt, but he didn't, "... I'm confused a-about what you meant by _now_."

 

She squeezed his arm before letting go, letting a little laugh slip out, "I'm sorry. I remembered something about you when Marco mentioned your name. I think it was about something that happened during middle school?"

 

"Middle school?" Jean pretended not to know what she was talking about.

 

"Yes, I think it was around that time. He came home from school one day and his hair was a mess. He had been crying and I felt so bad for laughing at the way you'd left it. Poor boy, it didn't look any better when I tried to fix it."

 

"Crying?" Jean trembled.

 

She waved her hand as if it wasn't a big deal, "Yeah, he was devastated when you cut it, but you know how he is. He completely forgot about it a couple hours later."

 

"He cried?" Jean repeated. She stared at him with caution.

 

"Yes, but don't worry about it, you were just kids. He gets over things very easily. And as you can see, he prefers his hair parted in the middle anyways."

 

_Act like a normal human, Jean, please._

 

He gave her a broken smile, "Are you sure he's alright now?"

 

"Of course! Marco pays more attention to his surroundings rather than himself. I didn't know if you two had kept a good relationship since you've never been around. I'm sorry if I frightened you."

 

The kid did space out a lot, but Jean knew Marco kept a close eye on his friends when they seemed distressed or irritated. He knew Marco stared at him, too, when he thought he wasn't paying attention. Peripherals were like lame little powers.

 

"No, I'm sorry I did that to your son," He looked deep into her eyes, "I'm really sorry Ms. Camilla."

 

Her posture and tone changed, "I'll forgive you if you make me a promise."

 

He didn't dare question if she was just teasing him. Seriousness and worry made her face age a few years as she waited for Jean to respond. He didn't know what she wanted, but he wasn't about to deny her anything. He _needed_ to be forgiven, and even if she wasn't exactly the person he wanted forgiveness from, it was a good place to start.

 

"Yes?"

 

"Promise me you'll watch over him? He tends to overwork himself - especially during the end of the year. He fainted once from over exhaustion back when he worked two jobs. I don't want him to get sick, and he doesn't listen to me, but since you're his friend maybe he'll listen to you?"

 

He wasn't Marco's friend, but he'd watch over him the way his mother wanted to if it meant he could put her mind at ease, and most importantly, atone for harming her child. His words came out with as much seriousness as she felt, "I promise."

 

"Thank you," She sighed with relief, "Now, here are your drinks. I think I kept you away long enough."

 

She handed him the cups, grinning at him so sincerely as if he had just announced he had been Marco's guardian angel this whole time. Even if she still made him nervous, he wanted to tell her he was glad they talked, but she had turned around already, singing in her language as she began pulling out meat from the freezer. Instead he took the drinks and went upstairs.

 

Marco was stretched out on his bed again with the door wide open like his mother had told him to. He was on his belly facing the wall where his headboard should've been, rereading each line of their short story with more care. Jean watched him from the entrance, not fully ready to announce his presence and deal with emotions that came with speaking to people.

 

He leaned against the door frame as Marco's head crashed down on a pillow, groaning with frustration at the words of Gabriel García Márquez. Jean almost laughed at him, but now he couldn't stop thinking about the incident Ms. Camilla had brought up. His feet stayed glued to the floor and his focus slowly left him as Marco's hair remained flopped on the pillow where his buried head laid on.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

_The boy's musty gym locker room was empty. The only sound it contained was Jean's rapid breathing and the drops of water that were falling from his hair and corners of his body. He sat patiently on one of the benches that split the room in half, chewing on his gum like an addict while he waited for somebody - anybody - to come and keep him company._

 

_One thing he regretted taking for granted was how easy fifth grade gym class had been to him. Now that he was in sixth grade he didn't know if he could survive the rest of the semester. The class had been outside, running a whole damn mile while being timed on it - as if they needed the extra anxiety - when it suddenly began pouring buckets. It had been so heavy that Jean couldn't see across the track to where his teachers were yelling for them. Without thinking about it he ran to the nearest building, which had been the gym. Everyone else followed the teacher's voice into the school._

 

_He felt stupid for running like a scaredy cat all by himself, but at the first sight of lightning, his body didn't listen to him and it fled with all its power to where he thought was the safest place. Now he was in an empty locker room that smelled like sweat and vomit, hoping that the pounding rain would stop so his classmates could return._

 

_"This is so lame." He said to himself as he stood up and walked towards the back where the restrooms were located._

 

_His skin got goosebumps as the hot air from the hand dryer dried his cold wet shirt. Almost by instinct he turned his head to the mirrors beside him, glaring at his reflection like he always did when he had to look at himself._

 

_During the summer he had done nothing but spend all his time on his computer watching what Daz had introduced him to as anime. He would've thanked him for giving him the best entertainment he'd ever received, but it had ruined all his motivation to go outside and play. He had mixed feelings about it, but right then and there as he stared at his roundish cheeks he felt like ruling it as a mistake. He had grown and slightly slimmed down over the few months they hadn't been in school, but he knew if he would've just rode his bike out every day like his mother begged him to he would've been way thinner and maybe even blessed with a nice tan._

 

_Puberty was destroying all the self confidence he didn't know he once possessed. The hair on his legs were thicker and it itched him when he wore jeans. His armpit hair was still pretty pathetic, but compared to his nonexistent facial hair, it was an improvement. The only thing he was proud of was his voice and how lucky he had been to go through the awkward pitch stage during the vacation, although every once and a while it decided not to cooperate. He was also happy to find that he was now a little taller than Eren and Daz, but that was about it. Everything else made him feel ugly._

 

_The machine stopped blowing and he mind numbingly pressed the metal button to get it going again. This time he turned around and let his backside warm up. He had been too busy cursing the late summer showers in his head that he didn't notice the quiet body staring at him._

 

_"Um, Jean?"_

 

_He already knew who it was without having to look up at them. The familiar boy's voice made his face go instantly pink. He could probably pick out every sound they made in a crowded room, but that's not where they were right now. He had been caught warming up his cold butt by his crush and poor Marco was still too afraid of Jean's threat from the end of fifth grade to tease him about what he was doing._

 

_"What?" Jean growled without looking up._

 

_"Mrs. Brzenka ordered me to come get you. She said to tell you she's not mad that you didn't listen to her, but I think she's lying again." He nervously chuckled._

 

_He didn't respond, expecting Marco to take his silence as a "whatever" and be on his merry way back to where he came from, but to his surprise he didn't leave. Instead he heard his light steps walk closer to the sink area where he was at. The sound of the air blower across from his startled him enough to look up at the brunet who was now warming up his back, too._

 

_Marco grinned at him, "Wow, this does feel nice!"_

 

_Jean almost swallowed his gum at the sight of him. His navy nylon shorts were almost stuck to his skin with how wet they'd gotten and he didn't even want to think too much about the way his white shirt dripped with transparency. The pinkness on his cheeks and nose (caused by the icy raindrops that attacked him as he came running to Jean's rescue) made him look even more adorable than usual. Even in cold weather his skin was still glowing with warmth. It was tan and welcoming to the flustered boy. He hated how Marco made him feel. It was like he wasn't able to think straight when he was around._

 

_After the day he had been dumped with crappy cafeteria food, Jean made sure to give Marco dirty looks every chance he got so he wouldn't know how he really felt about him, only ignoring his entire existence during lunch time when all his friends were around. The last week of school was put into horrible use, mocking the freckled boy and calling him names, but eventually it became the last day of their elementary life. During the whole time they were in class, Jean payed extra attention to Marco, snapping mental pictures in his brain so he wouldn't forget him during the break._

 

_He made sure to memorize where most of his spots were sprinkled while he told him to go back to the condiments section in the grocery store where the pepper was located. The sound of his laughter became Jean's new favorite song, but it hurt to know he would never be the cause of it. His eyes were fascinated by the way Marco's hair stayed neatly on his head even after swinging on the swings during recess. It was always perfect. Even now while it was shiny with water, it obediently clung to the side of his head._

 

_"What the hell are you doing?" Jean asked._

 

_"Drying myself?"_

 

_"No, moron," His machine stopped, "I'm asking why you're still here."_

 

_His eyes glimmered with happiness, "Oh! Don't worry, Jean, I won't get in too much trouble if I stay here with you."_

 

_"I don't care if you get in trouble. Stay if you want. I'm leaving."_

 

_"Wait," Marco cried as Jean shuffled past him, "You just dried yourself, don't you wanna stay?"_

 

_"Not if it means I have to be with you. I might catch your freckles and end up looking like mashed potatoes with black pepper."_

 

_He didn't want to go outside, he was afraid of being struck by lightning or having a tree fall on him because of the wind, but even that would be better than being mean to someone so innocent. If he knew where his off switch was he could've stayed, but he wasn't old enough to stop bullying the one he liked and he hated it._

 

_"Jean, wait! I have an umbrella in my locker if you want to use it."_

 

_He whirled around at the sound of Marco's sneakers dashing towards him, "Idiot, don't run or you'll slip!"_

 

_His warning came too late. In an instant Marco's feet lost control. His momentum caused him to slide a little, making his long legs knock Jean down with him. The air in his chubby belly wheezed out as he landed on one of Marco's knee, making his gum fly out of his mouth and onto the other's black tidy hair without the freckled boy even noticing. His eyes had been screwed shut the second he hit the tile floor._

 

_"Oh shit," Jean breathed as he caught sight of his hair where the pink ball was attached. His fingers quickly fumbled as he tried to untangle the mess, but all he did was smear it in further._

 

_"I'm sorry!" Marco put his hands up in defense, probably thinking Jean was trying to hurt him for making him fall. He tried tugging it off of his hair, hoping the wad of gum would slide off, but it didn't. His mind was so focused on fixing his precious hair that he didn't notice Marco's cries. In a second, he was off of the boy and rummaging through his locker where his bookbag was hanging from. He unzipped its pockets, searching for his scissors._

 

_"Wh-What are you doing?" Marco quivered, still sitting on the floor as Jean walked towards him with the sharp object._

 

_"Just hold still and it'll all be over before you know it."_

 

_It didn't help that his voice was coming out shaky and his smile was crooked with fakeness to try and reassure Marco he wasn't about to kill him, but it just seemed to terrify him even more. Jean ignored the boy's sorry eyes. The real issue was what he'd done to his hair and how he had to fix it so he wouldn't get in trouble. He also wanted to avoid making Marco hate his guts. He could handle Marco being afraid of him, but not angry. If he could fix it everything would be fine._

 

_"Stop squirming! I'm trying to help you!" Jean ordered when he had kneeled down to grab his damaged hair again, but the other boy was too confused and afraid to listen._

 

_Help me?" Marco asked, trying to look up at what he was doing. The movement of his head jerking upward made the angry boys fingers cut more than what he was supposed to, making him sharply inhale at the random strands that fell._

 

_"Uh-oh."_

 

_Marco shifted away from him as his hands let go, "Uh-oh? Uh-oh what? What were you doing to me?"_

 

_"Dammit Marco! Didn't I tell you not to move? Now look at you!"_

 

_He couldn't handle the way Marco's eyes popped out of his head when he looked down at the hair on the floor and the bits that stuck to his wet shirt. His tan fingers picked up a few that clung to him as if he were handling a dead baby bird. The wad of gum was nicely hidden away by clumps of hair that laid on the tile floor that Marco would never notice._

 

_They sat in silence. Jean waited for him to yell at him or maybe even cut his hair in revenge, but it never came. The room remained quiet for what seemed like forever, but eventually sound invaded his ears as Marco stood up without saying a word and ran outside into the pouring rain._

 

_Mrs. Brzenka gave him an earful when the class returned a whole twenty minutes later. She was so angry that she had barged into the boy's locker room just to yell at him, but Jean knew she had just been worried that he could've been hurt. Her words were too far away from him, his mind was preoccupied with the fact that Marco hadn't returned with the rest of the class. He thought she should be worried about the missing boy rather than him._

 

_After the students were out of their gym clothes and walking the humid hallways of the school, he tried to search for Marco. They had no other class together besides P.E. which meant if he really wanted to know what happened to him, he was going to have to swallow his pride and ask around. The only person he knew who had a few periods with him was Daz and he didn't have to search too hard to find him since he was already coming his way._

 

_Any other time he would've made fun of the way his shirt looked more like a flag on his thin body and how he could hear his baggy pants from a mile away, but he was too stunned by his face to say anything. The usual worry lines on his face were now deep cracks of a scowl and it was directed towards him._

 

_"Don't touch my boy again, homie," Daz shakingly warned, his gangster wannabe voice breaking at the end as he continued to walk on by._

 

_Jean's heart fell down to his stomach at the way he called Marco "his boy", but he had no right to feel bad about it, so instead he made his way to his last class as if nothing had happened. He was a lot more calm now knowing that at least one person had seen Marco and knew where he was, even if the information came as a threat. During dismissal his eyes scanned the crowds, hoping to find a funny looking head going to the buses, but besides Connie's, there was no one else._

 

_If he would've gone to the nurse's office after Marco had ran away, he would've found him in the corner of the room, hugging his knees as he sat on a plastic chair. He would've found him wearing a lost and found hoodie and waiting for the day to come to a dying end._

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Marco's singing was muffled by the cotton pillow. It was evident that he had given up completely on their work and boredom was now taking over his tired mind. Jean could almost see how slowly he was drifting off to sleep as his face turned to the side, facing him with closed eyes while the lyrics to a song he didn't know became clearer. He could stand there listening to his deep gentle voice, watching as the sunlight leaked through his curtains and onto his back until the ice in their cups melted.

 

As if sensing eyes on him, a single brown eye opened in his direction. They stayed that way for a few seconds - wordless and studying each other's faces. Marco was half asleep, confused about whether or not he was dreaming while Jean was emotionally drained already and it wasn't even passed five in the afternoon. He broke their eye contact, stepping in the world that was Marco's and sat on the cozy rug with his back pressed against his bed.

 

"You tired?" Jean asked, carefully placing their cups near the plate of food that Marco left on the floor so they wouldn't tip over and spill, "We can continue tomorrow after school. I think three hours is long enough for today."

 

"What'd you guys talk about?" Marco asked, ignoring his remark.

 

"Nothing. Why?"

 

He climbed down from his bed, crisscrossing his legs to match Jean's, "You look... woebegone."

 

"I look like _what_?"

 

"Woebegone... you know, sad," He took a sip from his cup, "I've been studying my vocab words."

 

Even if he didn't want to, Jean couldn't help but smile, "Nobody really talks like that."

 

"I know, but just memorizing the words don't help much," He moved the white plate closer to Jean, "Here take one, they're really good."

 

"Thanks," He mumbled before shoving one of the stromboli slices into his mouth. The thing _was_ fucking delicious.

 

"My mom didn't ask you any weird questions, did she?"

 

He didn't want to answer with a mouth full of food, so he shook his head aggressively. She had freaked him out at first when she asked if they got along, but the promise she wanted from him was completely understandable. It hadn't been weird but it was ironic that she wanted him - of all people - to protect her son. Maybe she had already asked everyone who's ever entered her house the same question, making an army of knights and shining armor from her son's friends.

 

Jean swallowed his slice as Marco took a bite of his own, "What counts as a weird question anyway?"

 

"Like if we were dating and using contraceptives, but don't worry! She asks everyone I bring over the same thing. She even asked Sasha once even though she knows I bat for the other team."

 

"You serious?" Jean asked, grabbing another slice of stromboli. He was glad the conversation had gone in a completely different direction.

 

"Yeah, that's why she told me to leave the door wide open."

 

He froze, "I thought that was just in case we fought or something."

 

Marco giggled, almost choking on the water going down his throat, "Did you come with the intention of sparring - and losing - again?"

 

"Hey, you cheated last time, alright? I was drunk and didn't know what the fuck I was doing."

 

"So if we had a match right now you'd win?" He ate another piece, "Is that what you're saying Mr. Soccer Player With No Martial Arts Experience?"

 

"Fucking fight me, Bott," He whispered - just in case Ms. Camilla could hear him all the way from the kitchen.

 

"It's a shame it isn't allowed in this house or I'd take you on right now." He joked, but it made him feel relieved to think about getting more beatings from him. Also a little worried that he was becoming a masochist.

 

"We'll have to do it at my place then since no one is ever home."

 

Marco set the empty cups on top of their empty plate and slid it near his nightstand so he could lay down with his back to the floor. His legs rested on top of his frameless bed as he comfortably grunted and rubbed his belly. Jean got a peek at the freckles around his happy trail before he readjusted his shirt. He wanted to lay down too, but decided it'd be too awkward.

 

"I've been thinking," Marco yawned, "Maybe I should spend the night tomorrow so we could have more time working on the project."

 

Jean tried not to get too excited about the mention of a sleepover, "But it's a school night. Would your mom be cool with it?"

 

"As long I don't mention how it'll be parentless, she'll be fine with it."

 

He chided him as he fiddled with his fingers, "Shame on you, lying to such a sweet woman like that. I should fucking tell on you."

 

Marco strained his neck, trying to glance at him, "Would you still rat me out if I said I'd be bringing over five star gas station trash?"

 

He pretended to think about it, "... What she doesn't know won't hurt her."

 

The boys laughed, feeling the air around them a bit warmer than it had been before. Being that comfortable made Jean feel just as sleepy as Marco, and as if he were reading his thoughts, Marco yawned again, "Hey, let's take a break. We've got like two more paragraphs to summarize right? Can we do 'em later?"

 

"Alright, just a short nap - I mean break - though. We over did it last time," He caught his contagious yawn and slowly moved next to Marco, "But get in your own damn bed, I don't want to sleep, er, take a break next to you."

 

"But I'm too tired to move."

 

"Tired of what? Thinking and reading?"

 

He nudged him with his elbow, "Working out the brain is more exhausting than working out the muscles. Besides, you're the guest, you take the bed."

 

"Exactly, I'm the guest. I can't make you stay on the floor."

 

Marco closed his eyes, "'S okay. I take most of my naps - I mean breaks - down here."

 

"That's so dumb." He whispered, closing his eyes as he made himself into a ball.

 

"I know." Marco whispered back.

 

_... If his mom catches us sleeping together, she'll probably never trust me again. I promised to protect Freckles, even from myself, I guess... not that I'd ever try anything on him..._

 

Jean sighed, standing up with heaviness that fought against his limbs. He crashed onto Marco's bed with the back of his head hitting the pillow, making the smells from his sheets puff up like a cloud. It smelled like hair, soap and earth. He probably had his windows open all the time, making them permanently stick to his blankets, but Jean didn't mind. He found comfort in it and in the way his body was hugged by the softness of his bed.

 

He laid there, amazed about how unreal life was sometimes. Never in a million years did he think he'd be laying down on Marco's bed, inhaling his existence with all of his senses. His mother was scary, his brother even more, but he felt true terror coming from his thoughts. If things kept going the way they were, he was going to have to confront Marco about his negative feelings.

 

The last thing he saw before falling sleeping were dust particles that were only visible by the light fighting through the curtains, dancing their way up to the ceiling where childish plastic stars were stuck on.

 

\---------------------

 

_Thwack!_

 

"Look alive, Jaeger, look alive!" Yelled Dr. Zoe after shooting him in the head.

 

Eren wiped drool from his face, turning pink as he realized where he was. He mumbled an apology to the teacher before they turned back around their desk and began to hastily type away at their computer. Dr. Zoe had some sort of sixth sense when it came to sleeping students, and by now they knew very well that Eren, Jean, and for some reason, Sasha were the main drifters of the class. Sasha was rarely caught, though, because of her helpful freckled lab partner.

 

"Why didn't you wake me?" Eren shot him a glare as he fixed his hair.

 

Jean shrugged, he was too tired from being awake at his other boring classes to babysit his friend. School was a drag, the freezing temperatures teachers kept in their classes were a drag, and waking up so goddamn early in the morning was a drag. He hated how teachers made it seem like it had to be everyone's number one priority, and maybe it is for some people, but not for Jean. School made his brain feel like it was turning to mush rather than firming itself with knowledge. Knowledge he'd apparently have to remember for the rest of his life in order to make it into the "real world", whatever that meant.

 

"I'm so fucking bored." Jean sighed, resting his palm on his chin.

 

Eren looked down at the worksheet they were supposed to be answering, "Just looking at all these words make my head hurt. Is this still English?"

 

"No, we're in anatomy, dumbass."

 

"I meant the language, moron.".

 

He huffed, "Whatever, you should ask Armin to help you out."

 

"He's never had this class."

 

"I know, but he still probably knows more than you."

 

"Shut up."

 

He chuckled, "But am I right?"

 

"Yeah, assface, you're right. That guy's brain is the size of... something really big."

 

"Something really big? How out of it are you? It's not like we've been going to practice for you to be so spacey."

 

Because they were seniors, they weren't forced to join their younger teammates to continue practicing, but Jean found that he was actually going to miss it. It made him feel like he was doing something productive - even if he had complained a lot - but now that he wasn't getting yelled at by coach or yelling at the other boys, his motivation to continue coming to school plummeted even further. And since neither Bertholdt and Eren wanted to keep on practicing, he wouldn't be going either. Friday had been his last practice and he didn't even remember much from it.

 

"I've been studying for my other classes." He said as he rested his head back down on the black table.

 

"Seriously? Since when have you ever cared about your grades?"

 

"Since Mika and Armin lectured me about it. It hit me like a truck that after this school year ends, we'll never be high schoolers again, like _ever_. Plus, I need to get my shit together so I can go to the same college as them."

 

"Don't you think we've still got a long time until the end of the school year? I think you're just freaking out."

 

"C'mon, you know how time is."

 

Jean knew what he meant. When you're young, time makes you think all your plans will go in perfect order and everything will be a cakewalk, but then it puts itself on fast forward times two and then suddenly you're in your forties with a kid in high school and with only a couple things crossed off your life's checklist. His mother told him it was a liar, but that it made you learn.

 

"So, why do you still suck so bad at anatomy if you've been studying like you said you have?" Jean asked, hoping to lighten up his own mood.

 

"I don't really care about it. I'm mainly focused in getting A's in psychology."

 

"Ahh, I get it."

 

Eren looked up at him in confusion, "Get what?"

 

"Mr. Ackerman."

 

"What _about_ him?"

 

"I wondered why you hadn't spoken about him. But now I know it's because you're trying to win his heart through psychology."

 

"Wow, you're an idiot, you know that?"

 

_Jean, shut up._

 

"So you're saying you're not into Mr. Ackerman anymore?"

 

Eren's eyes darted towards Dr. Zoe, "Don't speak so loud! You could get him into trouble!"

 

"You were the one who first talked about him that way."

 

"I stopped a week after!"

 

_Jean, just shut up._

 

"What? Did he reject you or something?"

 

Eren glared at him, "It wasn't like that!"

 

"So all that talk about how hot he was was what? A lie?"

 

"Well duh he's attractive, but so is Sasha and Marco and Mikasa and other people in this class, but you don't see me trying to fuck them now do you?"

 

"No, but you didn't talk about them the same way you did about him either."

 

Eren held in his breath, balling his fists and pausing as if he were counting to ten in his head. After a long exhale he said, "He's my mentor. He's helped me understand all these really cool things. I want to take everything he's taught me into something more serious. Have you even thought of what _you_ want to do? Grow up, Jean."

 

_Shut up!_

 

"Please, Jaeger, I've done all the growing I need. You, on the other hand, still look like you're fucking twelve years old."

 

"What the fuck--"

 

"Both of you, shut up!" Sasha harshly whispered. They couldn't see her, but they could feel how close she was to them, most likely leaning forward from her table so they'd be able to hear her.

 

Eren turned around and apologized with a halfhearted smile, but Jean didn't want to face the back. He could already feel Marco's eyes boring holes on the side of his face, and as much as they spoke in their second period class, seventh period was a different story. When all four were in groups for labs, they'd interact - not like strangers being forced to work together but neither like the way they did when they were alone. He didn't want anyone - specifically Eren - making fun of him for it or bothering Marco with a shit ton of questions.

 

The class dragged on as he completed his worksheet, the other two had helped Eren finish his before the dismissal bell could ring.

 

Like free birds out of their cages, the crowds of people flew to their next destination. Eren bolted out the door to drop Armin off at his culinary class while Sasha and Mikasa went downstairs together. He felt weird not heading straight to the gym after school. He wondered if that's how Ymir felt when she first got her job and had to quit theatre. It felt empty and the only way he could avoid the total hollowness was by planning on running every weekend morning. That was his favorite part of soccer anyways.

 

He headed towards the opposite direction of the crowd with the deepest scowl on his face as he thought of what Eren said.

 

_Grow up? Me? No shit, Jaeger, but I'll be dead before I agree with you. And you know what? I hope you get into Shiganshina University like how Armin and Mika are planning to because that way I won't deal with your bullshit and you'll get a great career and make your parents proud, you little shit._

 

He paced toward the end of the hallway, trying to cool his head. He breathed in the faint smell of vinegar that was always present around the science hallway. He savored the last lingering taste of cherry coke in his mouth as he swallowed. He fiddled with his bookbag straps between his fingers, feeling the pattern along it as he listened to the random tapping feet passing him by. There had been more people during the beginning of the school year, but now he could see that there weren't as many anymore.

 

It was a normal thing for - mainly the freshman - students to quit school after it'd begun. Many of the families in town had jobs waiting for their kids, so most thought it pointless to continue torturing themselves with deadlines and dealing with other people and just join the workforce. Jean wished he had parents like Sasha and Connie's, or even Reiner's tattooing father, so he could have that option, but he mainly wanted to work in the city where the people wore suits and ties and made great money. He'd even settle for midtown where all the artistic people seemed to live. He didn't want to leave the state, but he also didn't want to stay in their little town where everyone spoke the same and every house looked the same, minus the paint jobs. The city was far and different enough to feel like he was in a different state anyway.

 

He went down the flight of stairs and across the cafeteria before he was out in the windy weather. The black and purple nineties sweater that used to belong to his mother felt more like a blanket as he pulled up its hoodie and shoved his hands in its one front pocket. The action made him accidentally elbow somebody.

 

"My bad." He grumbled, trying not to sound irritated that he hadn't noticed someone getting so near to him.

 

"It's ok." Came a happy and far too familiar voice beside him.

 

Jean looked up to find Marco happily smiling at him, there was no smugness on his face, just genuine happiness. He didn't want to deal with him after what he'd said to Eren. Marco probably thought: _"Wow, this guy hasn't change at all!"_ after hearing their argument. And for some reason it made him feel like he was disappointing his mother rather than someone who considered him a friend.

 

"How long have you been next to me?"

 

He said, "Since we left the classroom."

 

"It's not Halloween yet, Bott, save your creepiness until then."

 

"It's not like I was stalking you. I'm just heading towards my car."

 

"But you didn't have to be right next to me."

 

He shrugged, his zigzag patterned sweater moving along with his shoulders, "It's just a coincidence that we're walking the same pace."

 

"Oh really?"

 

"Yeah, and besides," he grabbed hold of Jean's eyes, "What's weirder, me walking with a friend or you being totally oblivious to your surroundings and stomping around like an angry zombie?"

 

They were still heading in the same direction as they skipped passed the first lot of cars. He thought Marco would've had different feelings about him after insulting Eren, and yet here he was calling him the 'F' word again and seeming almost _worried_. He didn't understand him at all. Did he think he'd try to find trouble to release some anger?

 

"Hey, you didn't follow me because you thought I'd look for a fight, did you?"

 

Marco laughed, "You don't fight, Jean, but you did look angry enough to beat up a squirrel or something... but like I said, I wasn't following you."

 

"A squirrel?" He asked as he found his red Jetta, which was _coincidentally_ parked on the left side of Marco's Tahoe. The thing looked huge next to his car. That was probably how the two looked next to each other - not that Marco was that much taller or muscular than Jean - but that one inch did make a difference to him.

 

The boys walked to the side of their driver's door. Jean was ready to let the question awkwardly hang there and jump in, but Marco leaned on his red car with his arms folded on the roof, smirking to him from across.

 

"You're right. A squirrel could probably still kick your ass."

 

Jean opened his door, throwing his book bag inside then mimicked Marco's posture, "You're gonna eat those words when you come over tonight."

 

"Hm, I still don't think sober Jean is a better fighter than drunk Jean."

 

"Oh yeah? Well, you saw me in action that one time in Red Lobster."

 

He laughed, "True. In that case, I won't be going easy on you. The gym is on a break and I'm itching to spar."

 

_Fuck, he's gonna kill me._

 

"I won't go easy on you either." He said, not able to think of something more intelligent.

 

Marco gave him a smile, the consistent eye contact was making him feel funny, "Hey, Jean, can I have your number? It'd be easier to talk that way rather than sending each other DM's through Instagram."

 

He wanted to say no, but had no real reason for it, and he didn't want to feel more difficult than he already had been today. Besides, there was no real harm in letting him contact him whenever he wanted to.

 

"Nice," Marco smiled like a goof after Jean finished giving him his information, "I'll text you later."

 

Jean rolled his eyes at the way he was now drumming his hands on the top of his car, "Sure, and you better not be late again or this time I _will_ leave your sorry ass outside. Five o'clock, remember it."

 

"Don't worry, your majesty, I'll make it up to you if I am late."

 

_Your majesty? I won't beat up a squirrel but I'll beat you with one._

 

"Uh-huh, later, Freckles."

 

"Bye horseface." Laughed Marco.

 

They entered their vehicles - one rolling all their windows down like a lunatic and softly playing music while the other kept theirs rolled up, blasting their songs until the windows were shaking.

 

The ride home was a blur and his mind was on autopilot. As much as he hated to admit it, he felt a bit giddy at the thought of Marco coming over again. He was becoming the dappled light on the black shade that was Jean's past, his warm way of being was the complete opposite of himself. God, he had no idea what he was doing with Marco. It didn't help that he kept saying they were friends, soon enough Jean would start believing it. As he zoomed down the road he couldn't help wondering that maybe he already considered him one. He could be his friend, watching over him the way his mom asked him to would be easier that way.

 

But then again, just thinking about them being all buddy buddy made the snake in his gut bite him with its guilt-like venom. He cataloged the selfish idea for a later time.

 

His home was empty when he had finally arrived. He realized that a perk about not having practice anymore is that he now had a couple hours to spend with his mom before she went to work. During the time he wasn't enrolled in any clubs, he'd always find her in her uniform after school - whether she was catching up on some television or was out in the backyard doing some maintenance work - it didn't matter. And before he could panic about her being kidnapped by the government, he headed to the back of the house, and sure enough that's where he found her.

 

Her back was facing him as she held her hands to her hips, standing in a disapproving manner as if she had been lecturing the vegetables to stop throwing a tantrum and to start growing again. The indecisive weather was starting to kill everything she had tried to save, and Jean found he hadn't been blessed with a green thumb like her, otherwise he'd be helping.

 

He slid the glass door open as quietly as he could so she wouldn't hear him coming out. Like an old-fashioned cartoon, he took long exaggerated steps towards her, hoping to scare her in a loving way.

 

"Was practice canceled?" She asked, startling him. He had only made it a few steps from the door. 

 

He gave up on his dream of becoming a ninja and walked to her, "Yeah, for forever."

 

"What do you mean? You weren't kicked out, were you?"

 

"Nah, there's no point in going anymore since my last game was on Friday."

 

She sighed, "I'm sorry I couldn't go, _mon cher_ , I really wanted to watch you boys play."

 

"I know, I know. Don't worry about it, though. Maybe later in life I'll become a professional soccer player and you can watch me from your ninety-inch plasma TV - which will be in the mansion I buy you."

 

"Nobody needs a television or house that big. Even this one feels a little too big sometimes," She gave him a sad smile, "But anyways, so how was school?"

 

He shrugged, "Eh, school was school."

 

"Bad day, huh?"

 

_Curse her motherly instincts._

 

"Just a little. Nothing out of the ordinary. Don't worry, I'm a big boy, I'll be alright."

 

She eyed him, searching for black eyes or swollen lips, he didn't know, but when she saw what he was wearing she laughed, "Where did you find that thing?"

 

He frowned, "It was in the garage. I was looking for my winter clothes and found it. Does it look that bad?"

 

"No, of course not. You look very hip." She slid her arm around his and laid her head on his shoulder. She felt older right then, as if she were using him for support rather than being affectionate.

 

"And how was your day?" He asked, leaning his head down to touch his aging mother's.

 

"Too quiet. All I did was play old tunes and cleaned, cleaned, cleaned."

 

"Sounds like it's time to find a boyfriend, don't you think?" He teased, happy that she allowed him to say things like that.

 

Her body shook with laughter, "Oh sure, maybe one of the rich hotel guests will pick me up and give me a giant television as well."

 

"Well, you never know. It could happen."

 

They stared at the dark green leaves and stems that swayed with the wind in front of them. The dirt was cracked with desert dryness, but there were buttercup squashes that remained brightly standing, as if it were stealing all the underground water from the rest of the fruits and vegetables. They were all probably as confused about the temperature's ups and downs as the rest of the people in town.

 

"Let's go inside. I made hot chocolate."

 

It wasn't _that_ cold, but he didn't say so. Her chocolate was so much more better than the powdery stuff they sold in grocery stores. She said it was a recipe she had learned when she was fifteen, and when his dad had taken a sip of it a few years later when they were officially dating, _supposedly_ that's when he knew he'd be with her for the rest of his life. But that useless sperm-donating asshole was a liar and took off the second he found out she was pregnant and now here they were.

 

"So when am I gonna learn the family recipe to make this?" He asked once they were inside. His mouth watered when she pulled up the lid to the large pot of chocolate milk steaming with flavor.

 

"When you're in love."

 

He looked for her to crack a smile, but her gaze turned dreamy, "You're serious?"

 

" _Oui_ ," She grabbed a couple mugs and poured a generous amount in each one, "Our family is very romantic, Jean. I know _mémé_ doesn't call often, but when she does... "

 

"She romanticizes everything," He finished with a groan.

 

She once babbled on about how she wished she could walk again so she could dance in the rain the way she used to when her skin was firm. She had asked his twelve year old self if he had ever done it, and when he said no, she said he was missing out on something only the youth could appreciate. She said it was such a bittersweet thing to do that you couldn't help but feel like a lover's confession taken by the wind.

 

He had no idea what anything she said meant - even now he was still clueless - but he had tried it later on when he was alone during a thunderstorm. He didn't feel what his grandma had described. Instead he was left shivering and holding himself while several rain drops hit him in the eyes, and then later receiving the flu.

 

He didn't really know a lot about his mother's side of the family. She only loved to talk about her mother and her favorite things she did as a child, she never mentioned anything about his father or his relatives, either. Like him, she had no other siblings, which meant he had no immediate cousins. It didn't help that whatever family on her side that he did know about lived in France, which wasn't a car ride away like Marco's aunt, and that just made them seem all that much more lonely.

 

They drank their chocolate together in the dining room table, he listened to her stories of her past again, never getting tired of hearing them, but eventually it became time for her to leave. She didn't bother telling him to behave since she didn't know he wouldn't be alone tonight, and he didn't offer to give her that knowledge.

 

He watched her dive away in her little blue car until she was completely out of sight. It was quiet again, like the many late afternoons he had with himself during the week, and the warmth from the drink was making him sleepier than he had been in class. But he had to keep himself up for Marco.

 

His phone vibrated as he threw himself on the ghastly sofa.

 

 **From: Unknown**  
**\--What's your favorite food? :D**

 

_Marco?_

 

 **To: Unknown**  
**\--Dick**

 

 **From: Unknown**  
**\--Hmm, not sure they sell that in stores**

 

He yawned and stretched himself as much as he could. That probably was Marco since nobody else he messages sends him happy faces, not counting his mother. He wasn't thinking about food, or anything else for that matter, when sleep was calling him as loudly as it was.

 

 **To: Unknown**  
**\--oh well, j ust bring yours thrn**

 

He ignored his typos, ready to pass out after Marco hadn't responded for almost five minutes, but it bothered him that his quick replies had stopped so suddenly. With dry eyes he reread their short messages and screamed with his mouth shut with the realization of what he'd just said.

 

 **To: Unknown**  
**\--*Bring your favorite food.**  
**\--not your dick**  
**\--just to be clear.**

 

And as calm and collected as he sounded through his texts, he was pinker than a healing hickey and fully awake now, as if he had been tased by his own keyboard. He scratched his scalp in frustration to ease off some embarrassment, but it wasn't helping.

 

_fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_

 

Marco wasn't there yet, but he'd already managed to fuck up. It was going to be a very, very long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the summaries, I know they're messy. I'm not very good at it, which is why the summary for the whole fic is the way it is. I won't fuck with that yet.
> 
> Also sorry for taking so long with this chapter. I wasn't feeling well.
> 
> p.s. i drew you guys a thing to show my appreciation for sticking around, [since jean gets all the flashbacks, I gave you guys a peek at Marco's past p.p.s i heart you](http://thisishowithrash.tumblr.com/tagged/tol-fic)


	10. Glinting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Big baby lost in a store, farts are people too and that feel where everyone in the entire universe likes you EXCEPT ONE PERSON

There were very rare times when Marco's face would turn so pink and heated that he'd have to hide himself in a corner and try not to groan at whatever had caused it. He was pretending the vegan bread's label was fascinating and worth the read as other customers walked behind him. His phone stayed clutched in his hand and inside his jeans pocket, as if he were trying to hide the almost vulgar message Jean had sent him. Even after the other boy's clarification on the matter, Marco's blush remained on his freckled face.

 

_Ah, yes, Arnold's Jewish Rye, I think I've seen Krista eating this during lunch before. But then again, all bread looks the same, doesn't it? Unless you compare the white to the healthier brown… and then there are some with seeds on it. Or is it oat? I don't know. Arnold help._

 

He remembered reading on the internet that if you took a few deep inhale and exhales, the blood in your face would eventually return to wherever the hell it was supposed to, so that's what he did as he put back the bread and walked towards random areas, searching for _his favorite food_.

 

The only reason why he hadn't gone to the gas station like he said he was was because of Jean. He had been so lost inside his mind - and angry - that Marco had struggled to keep up with him until they were outside in the student parking lot. The little argument he had with Eren had clearly upset him, which confirmed his theory that Jean was a very sensitive person, and he wanted to do his best at cheering him up by buying him something that made him feel happy. Now he just hoped the atmosphere wouldn't be weird between them.

 

Marco shook his head as he threw a couple cases of Kool-Aid in his basket. He wouldn't normally get flustered over something like that, and it'd only be his fault if things felt awkward because Jean sounded perfectly normal after correcting himself. He was fine. Everything was cool.

 

After roaming the aisle for ten minutes, he finally decided to grab a few boxes of Pop-Tarts and head to the checkout line. He was cozy in his sweater, but the supermarket kept their cold air on year around, trying to mask the smell of pungent cheese and aging meat from the deli section of the store. It usually became stronger around Thanksgiving. Everyone prepared themselves for the stench when the workers would prematurely put up Christmas decorations, but once they were in the store for over ten minutes, they'd forget all about it.

 

He paid the tired woman, thankful that the amount wasn't over twenty-three dollars since that was all he had, and left. There was no difference between the temperature inside to the one in the outside world as he exited and walked towards his car. He loved it when there were people in the parking lots. The sky usually had his eyes, but there was something about watching people in busy places that amused him. His favorite people were the ones who came dressed in their pajamas, the ones that stayed in the car waiting for their friend or family member to quickly return while singing loudly to their music, and the ones that were his age or younger, accompanying their parent without that sour look on their faces.

 

A small gust of wind whirled his raven hair around, tickling his forehead and eyes as he jumped inside his Tahoe.

 

It hadn't even taken him ten minutes to already be parked next to Jean's red Jetta. The time on his stereo said it was twenty minutes past five, making him sigh with nervousness as he climbed out with his duffel and grocery bag and headed towards the door.

 

“Jean?” Marco asked after knocking, “Jean, I'm sorry I'm la--”

 

The quickness of the door swinging open made him jump with surprise. His face threatened to flush when he looked Jean in the eyes, but they quickly darted down before color could reach his skin. He forcibly stared at the same pajamas the other boy had worn the first time he went to his house; He really needed to get over Jean's message before he could make a fool out of himself.

 

“I brought stuff.” He said as he stepped inside, removing his shoes.

 

Jean shut the door and snatched the bag from his hands, “Damn, why'd you bring so many Pop-Tarts?”

 

“I didn't know which flavor you liked, and since you told me to bring m-my favorite food instead, I brought a bunch. Do you not like them?”

 

He pulled out a box, “Well, at least you brought the cupcake one.”

 

Marco felt like a dog whose owner just patted him on the head for not shitting on the floor. But at last Jean was acting normal, well, besides the unnecessary amount of energy he was putting into scratching his head, and that was a great sign. He didn't have to worry about things being weird after all.

 

“So, do you wanna start on the project?” Marco asked with a smile.

 

Jean rolled his eyes at him before leading them upstairs, he could practically hear him calling him a nerd.

 

Like before, he roamed the narrow hallways walls with his eyes. There were no pictures of family or friends, only of basic paintings you'd find at a thrift store. It didn't seem like they'd belong to them, just like with the rest of the furniture in their house, there was nothing that popped out and screamed Jean or his mother's style. Most of their decorations seemed to be just for the sake of having something fill a spot rather than because they loved it. Even without their own special touch to the place, the little things they left around, like the scarf hanging on the foot of the staircase, the tube of lipstick that had been abandoned at the corner of the hallway, and the single black sock near the bathroom is what made the place feel homey.

 

It didn't hit him that he was actually going to be sleeping over his house until they entered his room. It was a bit messier this time with more clothes lying around, along with DVD cases, empty water bottles and scraps of paper. He also noticed a poster of a not so popular anime on his closet door that hadn't been there before, reminding him of how much they might have in common even if they shared polar-opposite personalities.

 

He dumped his bag on the floor while Jean fiddled with his laptop in the corner of the room. He walked towards the wooden bed, admiring how sturdy it still seemed after so many years. His fingers traced along a splintering section, he couldn't believe he was finally going to be able to experience being on a bunk bed.

 

_Where does he sleep? Is the top free? Please let the top be free. It wouldn't be any fun if I had to sleep down here. It's like sleeping on a regular bed, but with like a human roof on top of you._

 

“God, I hope you're a bottom.” He sighed as he looked up to see if the top had been claimed.

 

“What did… what did you just say?” Jean growled, turning his head so he could glare accusingly at Marco, but there was also terror in his eyes.

 

“What - Oh! No, I didn't mean it like _that_! I meant the bunk beds, I meant I hope you were a bottom bunker because I've never been on top, or any bunk for that matter. And I'd really like to experience it before I die! I'm sorry!”

 

“I'm not going to kill you! And I'm not going to let you be on top, either,” He brought his laptop down with him as he sat on the floor, exhaustion written all over his face, “Let's finish those couple of paragraphs we've got left so we could work on the easier part of this stupid project.”

 

“O-Okay.”

 

_Nice work, Marco, that was almost as embarrassing as what Jean texted._

 

He dragged his bag with him and sat across from Jean. He searched for their papers while the other messed around with his computer until music started playing. They were quiet for a while, Marco glanced at him every few seconds to make sure he was alright, but was too afraid to say anything yet. His whole body appeared droopy and there were puffy bags under his eyes. Like most of the seniors in school, he looked as if he were ready to fall inside his own casket at any second.

 

“Was practice hard today?” Marco asked, trying to wake him up with conversation.

 

“Huh? Uh, no. There's no more practice. Just been a long day.”

 

“I could've came earlier.”

 

He shrugged, sliding the laptop to the side, “My mom doesn't leave until later.”

 

In other words, he guessed, he wasn't invited until then, “Does she know I'm staying over?”

 

“God no. She’d kill me if she found out I had a guy over. Luckily she doesn't get home until after I go to school, so we'll be fine.”

 

Marco handed him the papers, feeling increasingly guilty at how tired Jean appeared. He hadn't felt like he had been pushy the day he asked him for help, but now he was realizing that maybe he did pressure him to a certain degree. Since he was good at the subject, maybe Jean would've finished with his project quicker if he had been on his own.

 

“Wait,” He took the papers back, “I'll do the rest on my own. I don't want to make you do all the work. If I need help, I'll just stay after school tomorrow so the teacher can help me.”

 

Jean scowled, “Then what was the point of you coming over?”

 

“We still haven't figured out the creative part.”

 

“ _Actually_ , I have. We just need to ask Thing One and Thing Two if they could let us borrow some stuff from the drama club for your costume.”

 

“What about the townspeople? Are we going to make them? Or am I going to be playing all the parts?”

 

“That would be way too complicated. I was thinking we could make the them, but that's still pretty hard. My mom has a shit ton of brooms that she's taken from the hotel she works at. We could stick faces on them and arrange them in different places during our presentation.”

 

“That does sound hard.”

 

“Got any better ideas?”

 

“Not yet.” He joked.

 

Jean stood up, “Alright, smart ass, stay here. I'll be right back. ‘M gonna show you what kind of material we're working with.”

 

He heard him run downstairs, followed by what he imagined could be all the brooms he was talking about falling down and hitting the tile kitchen floors, and lots of muffled curses. He looked so done when he was back in the room with a witch-like broom.

 

“How are we going to make it look like a pers--”

 

“This,” He said pointing to the end where the brushes were at, “can be the face. We can glue googly eyes on it and use construction paper for noses and lips.”

 

“I don't mean to question your genius-ness, but does that mean they'll all have the same hair style?”

 

Jean rubbed his tired eyes and slumped his shoulders with early defeat. He walked towards his bed and in a hoarse _humph_ , he sprawled himself all over the bottom bunk, sighing with tiredness as he said, “Fuck if I know. The idea just came to me while I was showering.”

 

The music continued to play as it filled their silence. Marco wanted to forget the project and just let Jean rest, but he had a feeling he'd get mad if he suggested that. Afterall, he was only there so they could get work done. Not because Jean actually wanted his company. Marco was his friend, but it wasn't like that the other way around, and it surprised him how it hurt a little.

 

He scooted closer to Jean. An apology was forming at his lips, but instead came out, “Do you want a Pop-Tart? Or a Kool-Aid? Maybe the sugar will wake you up.”

 

He looked down at him with surprise, “Yeah. Sure.”

 

Marco smiled, more to himself than to Jean, as he reached for the bag of junk food on the floor. He shamed himself for feeling like he was walking on eggshells around the gump when all he was was tired. Never in his life had he met someone so easy and yet complicated at the same time. That was probably one of the reasons why he enjoyed being around Jean so much. It was never boring and everything that came out of his mouth was always a surprise. Especially when it wasn't an insult.

 

“So,” Marco started as he handed Jean his box, “since we're going to be working on the broom-people, do you want to go to the dollar store or something and buy all the supplies we need?”

 

“Let's go later. I wanna be lazy for a bit.” He said as he ripped the thin cardboard box open.

 

“Ok. Then, uh, what do you wanna do right now?”

 

His face lit up as he took a bite of his sugar filled snack, “Movie.”

 

They were procrastinating so much, and yet Marco didn't feel like stopping himself or Jean. Instead he got out of the way and moved near the wall next to one of his windows. Jean moved around his room in a way that seemed like he'd done many times before. He kneeled down to wiggle out an extra blanket from under his bed and placed it on the mattress, he grabbed the back of his swivel chair and placed his laptop on top of it, facing the bed, and finally he brought down two extra pillows from the top bunk to the bottom one and placing them so they'd split the bed in half. Marco felt jealous about his bed again.

 

“It's like a mini movie theater. Hey, can we make it into a fort?”

 

“Knock yourself out. I'm gonna go get some hot chocolate, “ His eyes stayed focused on his handiwork, but his face noticeably softened, “Want some? My mom made it from scratch earlier. Tastes pretty good.”

 

“Mm. Can't say no to that.”

 

Jean walked to the doorway, “Pick a movie while I reboil the chocolate, but don't unorganize my shit.”

 

“Got it, boss.”

 

Marco happily walked over to his neatly clustered desk. He didn't even know where to start, there were so many DVDs. They seemed to be stacked randomly, but then he noticed they were separated by genre. There were only a couple horror movies… if you counted _Donnie Darko_ or _The Craft_ as scary movies.

 

His fingers carefully lifted different parts of the stack, searching for an appropriate movie that wouldn't make either of them feel uncomfortable - until he saw the title of a movie he'd never watched. Sasha had mentioned the title to him before, it was the play she and Connie were going to be acting out in the middle of the month. When she found out he'd never seen it, she couldn't stop thinking of how the universe hadn't made it possible for him to get the opportunity to watch such a classic.

 

He smiled at the memory while he placed the DVD on the bunk, then grabbed the white thin blanket Jean brought out and began working on the fort. It sounded easier than it looked. The only forts he ever did as a child were built between his bed and Micah's, and all they had to do was place slightly heavy objects on top of the corners of the sheets so they'd stay in place while they huddled inside, but this was different. Jean's bed was like a jail cell. Twisting it around the thin bars would make him run out of blanket before he could reach the other side.

 

“You're doing it wrong.” Jean smirked as he came inside with two mugs on either hand. The sweet smell made his mouth water.

 

“That was really fast. What kind of stove do you have?”

 

“A shitty one. I used the microwave when I remembered how impatient I am. Here, hold this.”

 

Without waiting for a response, he pushed the hot cups towards him. Marco had to quickly wrap his fingers around Jean's where the ear of the mug was so they wouldn't fall. The contact was brief, but it still startled him stupid.

 

He watched Jean awkwardly walk away, kneeling inside the bed as he tucked the blanket from within the bunk. No twisting involved. There were no hesitations in his movements as his slender fingers swiftly worked their way around.

 

“You made fun of me for wanting to make a fort the last time I was here, but you _sure_ do seem like you know what you're doing there, Jean.”

 

His face was hidden behind the blanket now, but Marco could practically see the annoyance on his silhouette face, “I-It's called muscle memory. I used to do this all the time when I was younger and I just remembered how to do it… shut it, unless you want me to take it down.”

 

_Your secret is safe with me._

 

When he was finished, he carefully got out from under the blanket and tucked the swivel chair underneath it. His face was twisted in disgust as he walked towards him to retrieve the mugs.

 

“Out of all the movies I have, you chose _Dirty Dancing_?” Jean asked, eyeing him in disbelief.

 

“Oh, yeah. I've never seen it before and Sasha said that's the play they're doing. If you don't like it--”

 

“Wait,” He interrupted, lacing his fingers around the cups ears without touching him this time, “You've never seen it?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“You came into _my_ house without ever watching Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey getting it on?” He placed the cups on his desk with caution.

 

Marco felt lost, “Does that mean we _are_ watching it?”

 

“Oh hell yeah.”

 

It seemed like something in Jean's brain switched from indifferent to slightly excited. He told him there were two things that made a great movie more enjoyable, and that was wearing comfortable clothing - that didn't look dirty like Marco's jeans - and munching on easy to eat type food like the Pop Tarts he had brought. He ordered Marco to take his big ass bag and change into his pajamas, reassuring him that they'd definitely go to the store for their project after the movie ended, while he fixed their watching area.

 

Marco gave him a questioning look, wondering if that shine in his eyes were there the last time they had decided to watch a movie together. He walked out of the bedroom feeling less guilty now that Jean was more awake.

 

The bright bathroom lights blinded him for a minute once he was inside. When they had adjusted, all he saw was blue. The walls were a light indigo shade that matched the fluffy rugs his feet were standing on. There were faded stickers of fish on the porcelain tub that reminded him of _The Rainbow Fish_ books he used to read as a kid, and even the toothbrush holder was underwater themed. The squarespace, much like the rest of the house, had frozen in time a decade ago.

 

He felt invasive as he pulled out his toothbrush from his duffel bag and placed it next to what he guessed was Jean's. His hands quickly replaced the clothes he had on his body with old black sweatpants and a loose long-sleeved shirt, shivering at the loss of his own body heat.

 

Once he was out, he could hear Jean singing one of the songs he _knew_ was from the movie. The only reason why he knew that was thanks to Sasha and Connie's excessive amount of videos they sent everyone during rehearsals. 

 

“So,” Marco said as he entered the room, “you actually _like_ this movie?”

 

Jean was hidden inside the fort, “It's my favorite.”

 

He slowly peeled back the draping cover after throwing his bag to the side of the bunks and crawled inside. Since the sheet they used to make the fort had been thin, the light in Jean's bedroom was still able to penetrate through the fabric, touching everything inside with softness that almost made them glow.

 

The beauty in it almost made him forget Jean was there, “Then why'd you make that face when you saw what movie it was?”

 

“Because,” He said, moving closer to the swivel chair to press play, “ _you_ picked it.”

 

He had no comeback for that, so instead he directed his attention to the laptop that was beginning to spew out hazy pink colors. It was followed by a catchy song playing in the background, and as if the name of the film wasn't enough indication that there'd be some type of dirty dancing, the first thing that popped up were people grinding together. Their movements were so intimate that Marco wondered how the actors were able to pull that off without getting embarrassed or turned on.

 

Jean smacked him on the chest with the back of his hand to grab his attention. Without saying a word, he handed him his cup of hot chocolate that had been sitting on top of one of his school textbooks at the corner of the bed. The boxes of Pop-Tarts were in between them, along with the extra pillows he had taken from the top bunk. He then figured out that the pillows were more like a wall to separate them since they were sharing the one big comforter. The thought of Jean being afraid of catching freckle cooties almost made him laugh.

 

The slow motion dancing continued as he kicked his legs inside the blanket, trying not to spill his drink at the same time. He squirmed until his back was comfortably resting against the wall and then sighed a happy sigh. His eyes stayed glued to the laptop until he swallowed the first sip of his hot drink. Marco wanted to tell him how great it tasted, but his friend was admiring the movements of the actors like the way a child looked at their superhero parents.

 

Without removing his eyes from the monitor, Jean said, “You can't enjoy the movie if you're not watching it.”

 

“Ok, ok. Sorry, I'm watching.”

 

At least that's what he had planned to do. Marco didn't pay too much attention to the movie. He had found out it was more amusing to watch the way Jean was enjoying himself. It was a side he'd never seen and wondered if the other's realized he was able to look anything other than angry or annoyed. His amber eyes were like big circles, completely focused and devoted to the drama and music coming from the screen. All his emotions flickered and changed like the way words did in books when they were carelessly flipped through.

 

Jean's eyebrows furrowed with how awkward he felt during the actual dirty dancing. His chewing mouth stopped for a second and became the tiniest pout when Baby found her sister's boyfriend-for-the-summer had cheated on her. His eyes shied away when the main characters privately danced, which had then turned into sex, and he could almost see his chest puff out with proudness when Johnny came back for his petite love interest.

 

“ _Nobody puts Baby in a corner_.” He saw Jean mouth along with Swayze.

 

From underneath the blanket, Marco could feel the way his legs were twitching along with the song. He wouldn't have been surprised if Jean suddenly jumped up from the bed and began dancing and singing all over the house, but he didn't. His warm face remained intensely watching the happiness the actors so believably showed.

 

They remained still and silent while the ending credits began rolling. The chocolate in their cups were empty, resting nicely in their bellies. Its sweetness was no match for the strawberry Pop-Tarts. He had abandoned the snack halfway into the movie, but not Jean. He had almost finished his box until he got bored of the flavor and ate some of Marco's.

 

Their shared warmth from the large comforter was making him drowsy and needy. Being sleepy always made him want to hold onto something until he passed out, but they still had to work on their goddamn project.

 

“Do you still wanna go to the store and buy some supplies?” He asked.

 

With hamster cheeks full of food, Jean nodded with exaggeration.

 

“Are you going with what you're wearing?”

 

He nodded again.

 

“Ok, cool, me too.”

 

They shuffled out of bed, grabbing their old sweaters and headed downstairs. The air outside was colder than the night before, but Marco loved it. It was refreshing and for some reason he felt like he needed it.

 

“My car.” Jean ordered once he was done locking the door.

 

Bits of strawberry crumbs were stuck on the side of his pink lips as he stuffed his half eaten Pop-Tart in his sweater pocket.

 

\---------------------------

 

“ _Merde. Merde. Merde_.” Marco quietly cursed to himself.

 

He felt like a bull in a china shop at the way he was speeding his way down the Walmart aisles searching for Jean. He apologized to a woman for almost running over her hyperactive child, turning a wide turn to the next aisle, and hoping that he'd catch a glimpse of Jean's two-toned hair or purple sweater.

 

By the time they had reached the dollar store the workers had just barely closed. Jean had plastered himself against the glass door, giving the cashier puppy dog eyes in hopes that they'd let them in for just a second. The lady pitifully smiled at him with a shake of her head, then glanced at Marco with a face that said - “hey, aren't you going to do something about your friend?”. He peeled Jean from the glass, his fingers smearing against it, and hauled him back to the car. The incident caused him to get hyper during their ride to Walmart, making him blast post-hardcore music the entire way there while loudly singing with it.

 

Once they had entered the store it didn't take long for things to go downhill. He spent a good twenty minutes trying to lure Jean to the back where the arts and crafts were located, but the boy just wanted to poke fun at all the t-shirts in the men's sections for having cheesy puns on them. When he had cackled everything out of his system, they finally started putting their time to good use.

 

While Marco dumped their needed supplies in the cart, Jean messed around with Styrofoam cones, sticking them underneath his sweater and pretending to be Madonna. It wasn't until Marco had finished calculating the price of everything with the amount of money he had that he noticed how silent the atmosphere had become. He did a complete one-eighty, but there had been no sign of Jean.

 

And now he was frantically searching for him.

 

_It was just one second. I took my eyes off of him for one second and he disappears!_

 

He raced down the opposite end of the store where the hygiene and health care area was at. There had been no sign of him in any of the numbered aisles, but then again, they could just be circling each other. The thought terrified him as he passed different faces, useless faces that weren't the ones he was searching for.

 

“Jean?” He hissed passing by the vitamin section, “Jean, this isn't funny anymore.”

 

The tooth care aisle was empty, but he earned a couple annoyed and judgmental stares from people by all his pleading. He thought he was being quiet, but the ringing in his ears was causing him to be a little too loud.

 

_Dammit, they probably think I lost my child. They probably think I'm an unfit parent who deserves to have my child taken away. And they're right. How did I lose a giant, loud baby? I am an unfit father._

 

“Jean? Jeeean? Jea--”

 

Jean wasn't in the condom aisle, but Reiner was. He was holding onto a one size fits all box in his hands when they locked eyes with one another. Reiner was wearing fake reading glasses, a large beanie and a thick jacket. It was obvious he was in a sad excuse of a disguise. Any other day he would've heavily questioned him about it, but right now he didn't want to embarrass his friend, but he also didn't want to be embarrassed or questioned in return.

 

“Did you hear me yelling Jean's name just now?” Marco sternly asked with a smile.

 

He was about to nod, but then caught on, “N-No. Did you see me getting condoms?”

 

“N-No.”

 

They gave each other a single nod before returning to what they were doing before.

 

Marco zoomed quickly around the corner with his heartbeat starting to race. His worry was turning into paranoia.

 

Maybe he'd never find Jean and he'd have to explain to his mother how the store just swallowed him up because he tasted like cupcakes and strawberries. Maybe he'd have to go to jail for it since technically he'd be a missing person and Marco was the last person who had contact with him. Maybe he'd have to move to Antarctica and live among the penguins when he got of of prison since everyone would hate him for losing such a… unique person. Maybe he'd have to marry a penguin and have penguin kids and then lose those kids as well. So many maybes, not enough weed.

 

“Listen twerp, I won fair and square. Now where's my five bucks?”

 

_Jean!_

 

The last time he had ran to the toy section was more years than he could count on both hands, but he had now broken that record as he made his long legs hurry to the sound of Jean's voice. He prepared himself for the worst as he entered the aisle, muscles tensing and ready for action just in case he had to break up a fight between him and an employee or customer, but nothing could've prepared him for what he was now witnessing.

 

Jean was wearing a Captain America mask with a Superman cape wrapped around his neck. One of his hands were on his hips, and although he was in a superhero pose with superhero gear, he was more like the villain. His other hand held a foam pirate sword, and it was pointed down towards an elementary school looking kid who was on the floor, wearing different hero merchandise. It seemed as though a tornado had passed through the hallway, but the freckled boy knew perfectly well the culprits were before him.

 

“What are you doing, Jean?” Marco asked, frozen where he stood.

 

Jean spun around and pointed the sword towards him, “Stay out of it, Freckles. This kid owes me.”

 

“I do not! You're like thirty, I told you I couldn't beat you at arm wrestling! ‘Sides, I never even agreed to it anyways.”

 

Jean growled, “I'm not thirty, I'm tired! There's a difference!”

 

He jabbed the kid on the chest hard enough to make half of it bend out of shape. It didn't hurt the boy, but it annoyed him strongly enough to make him hurtle his Iron Man mask at Jean's face. The plastic landed on the side of his cheek with a weak _thwack_. If his parents happened to walk in on them right now, they'd get in a fuckload of trouble.

 

“Jean! We're leaving, like, right now!” Marco tried to sound as sternly as his mother did but failed.

 

“What? No. It's not just about the money anymore,” He wiped the side of his cheek with the back of his hand, “It's about my pride now.”

 

The kid cried out in irritation at the quickened jabs that were hitting him on the chest, stomach and head, “Control your old man, man!”

 

Marco quickly grabbed Jean from behind and slightly picked him up to get him off the kid, but he _still_ tried to stab the poor boy after. His body was hot from anger and all that energy he had. He didn't know if he'd be able to survive until Jean had his sugar crash.

 

“Keep your dog on a leash!” The kid yelled as he ran away before Jean's mask could hit him.

 

His failed aim only made him more fussy and motivated to chase after the boy, but Marco's grip tightened. He was thankful many parents avoided the toy section so they wouldn't have to buy any for their begging children.

 

“Jean, don't make me take you down, please.”

 

He huffed, but continued squirming, “He started it.”

 

“I'm sure he did, but you gotta be the bigger person and forgive the child, alright?”

 

“But he called me a dog!”

 

Marco tightened his grip even more, “Forgive ‘em.”

 

“But--”

 

“Forgive Jeanbo!” He gave him a squeeze as a warning to not chase after the boy, then released him, “Now, let's go home. We have everything we need and we've got work to do.”

 

He undid his cape, throwing it on top of Lego figures and frowned, “Lame. We've only been here for like ten minutes.”

 

Marco almost laughed at that, but he was seriously worrying about their dwindling time, “We really gotta go.”

 

“ _Fine_.”

 

\-------------------------

 

Thirty minutes after allowing Jean to roam the technology section, they were finally back in his room with brushed teeth, just in case they wouldn't be up for it by the time they finished, and ready for work. They stayed on the floor with dozens of mud colored brooms surrounding them. Floppy construction paper and dozens of googly eyes crowded their legs. Marco was happy that Jean's energy was being put to good use, just watching him move his scissors so quickly motivated him into cutting out more crescent shaped mouths and wicked noses.

 

It took them a while to cut everything out, but it was taking them even longer to stick everything into place. The googly eyes kept slipping off the thick and twisting brushes, but if they blew hard enough on the cheap glue, it eventually dried and stayed in place.

 

During some time, Jean became distracted and decided to pour the white substance onto his palm. Marco watched him in shock as the other slathered his hands together as if he were warming up lotion, then flapping his arms to dry the glue. He allowed himself to laugh at Jean's actions. If he was still going to make trouble, he was happy it was at home and somewhere Marco could look after him.

 

But he was testing his patience. He'd have little moments where his hands would continue to wander off, finding whatever fun he could play with while his glue dried fingers wrinkled and stretched with every movement. Marco tried not to pay attention to him as he poured more glue to his hands after a piece on his palm had peeled off, but he couldn't help the snort that forced its way out after Jean had commented on the white goo looking like “expired eighty-year-old jizz”. He quickly corrected himself and asked Jean to concentrate.

 

The more townspeople they created, the more they were noticeably pathetic, but the boys were way out of time to be bothered by it. It was almost midnight and his fuel was running on low. Marco thought he would've learned his lesson by now about waiting at the very last minute to finish important school work, but it's practically impossible to follow through with your own promises while you're breaking them. The price for procrastination is accepting shitty results.

 

“You look so tired.” He heard Jean snicker. He still had that wide-eyed look on his face, although, it wasn't as crazy as before.

 

Marco looked up to see him staring at him in amusement while his fingers peeled off a layer of false skin.

 

“I wonder _why_ Jean.”

 

“What's that supposed to mean?”

 

“Hm, where do I start? I had to chase you around Walmart, saw something I probably shouldn't have, pulled you away from a child you bet money with, and earned lots of judgmental stares from strangers after calling out your name.”

 

He laughed, “I wish I could've seen that.”

 

“It wasn't cool.” He fake frowned.

 

“Well you're not very cool, anyway.”

 

Marco threw him a plastic eye, smiling at the truth of his words, “I know.”

 

Jean continued to laugh at nothing in particular, or maybe he was still laughing at the freckled boy, but either way he made Marco join him with how ridiculous and out of it he looked. It was no wonder they called it a sugar high because that's exactly how Jean was appeared: high.

 

After finishing a few more people, they decided to take a “break”. They both already knew that was code for completely giving up on their project and leaving it for a later regret. Marco moved at a snail's pace as he realigned the messy comforter and pillows while Jean happily sang his way on top of his bunk. The more exhausted Marco felt, the more hyper the other boy seemed to get.

 

His pillow smelled like abandonment and hot chocolate. The bed nicely cradled his body as he slithered himself underneath the covers. With closed eyes, he was ready to let sleepiness take over, but the lights were still on and Jean was still inharmoniously singing the _Dirty Dancing_ soundtrack from above him. If he ignored him hard enough, he'd be able to go to sleep in a matter of seconds.

 

“Hey!”

 

Marco's eyes popped open, “What? What's wrong?”

 

Jean laughed. His head was hanging upside down from the railing, causing his hair to reveal more of his intimidating eyes, “You're not going to sleep yet, are you?”

 

Marco rubbed his face, “Yeah, it's really late. You should try to, too.”

 

“But I'm not sleepy yet. You know, this is all your fault.”

 

“It is?”

 

It was.

 

“It was that shit you bought. Do you know how much sugar they have? A fuck ton, that's how much. If you had brought anything, _but_ that I'd be out like a light already.”

 

“But you told me to bring my favorite food. Remember?”

 

Jean's face turned pink from hanging upside before he disappeared back into his bunk, “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Still your fault.”

 

“You know,” Marco snuggled with the extra pillow, “if you want me to keep you company until you feel sleepy, you can just say so.”

 

He had only been joking, but the pause Jean took made him feel like he was taking him seriously. Before, he would've told him he was only kidding, but now he was curious to see what he'd say. Would he tell him he was an idiot and pretend to go to sleep or would he stay quiet and then change the subject?

 

A smile bloomed on his face at Jean's response.

 

“Keep me company.”

 

Marco curled his toes, “Hm. Are you sure you wanna talk to someone who isn't very cool?”

 

“If you think I'm going to take back what I said, I've got some bad news for you.”

 

“I knew you'd say that,” He laughed, “But that's ok because lame-o’s come in pairs. So what do you wanna talk about?”

 

“I'm not lame,” There was a pause, “Whatever, I dunno. I just wanna talk myself to sleep.”

 

“We could tell each other scary stor--”

 

“No! Then I'd never sleep and I'd force you to suffer with me.”

 

“Ok Mr. Cool,” Marco murmured to himself, then loudly asked, “What about playing twenty-one questions?”

 

“What are we, twelve?”

 

Marco sighed, “Fine, tutor me until you feel sleepy. I've got lots of things I still don't understand.”

 

“Twenty-one questions it is,” Jean threw his sweater to the floor, followed by his anime shirt, “So who asks first?”

 

“You start since I came up with the idea. And remember, you can ask whatever you want and respond with nothing but the truth.”

 

“What happens if I lie?”

 

“Nothing. It just won't be as fun if you don't answer with the truth,” He held in a yawn, “Hey, can I turn off the lights?”

 

“Sure,” He waited until Marco was back in bed before asking, “Let's see, let's see… um, what's your favorite color?”

 

“Starting with easy questions, huh?” He giggled in the dark as he buried himself in the blanket, “I don't really have a favorite, but if I had to pick, I guess it'd be… pink.”

 

“Pfft, not surprising. Ok, your turn.”

 

“Do you think you'd be able to win in a serious fighting match with me?”

 

“Fuck. No, you ass.” He said while his hand popped down from the top, flipping him off, but all it did was make Marco laugh, “ _Anyways_ , my turn. What are those things you have in your room?”

 

“Things?”

 

“Yeah, they're on your ceiling.”

 

“Wait, you mean the glow in the dark stars?”

 

“I guess.”

 

“Hold up,” He got out of bed just to stare at Jean. The light from his phone was bright enough to reveal his bloodshot eyes, but not enough to show his bare chest, “You've never seen glow in the dark stars? They were in everyone's childhood!”

 

He avoided his gaze, “Well not in this little French fry’s childhood. And was it really in _everyone's_ childhood?”

 

“Yeah, well everyone I knew. I think Thomas had some in his room, and also Daz,” He looked up at Jean's ceiling, “You know, having those stars on your ceiling would be awesome. You'd be able to touch them.”

 

Jean playfully shoved Marco's head away from the railing, “What am I? Five? I think there's an expiration date for what age you should buy those things. ‘Sides, it's not that big a deal anymore.”

 

Marco's heart felt heavy. It wouldn't be the first he wondered about his childhood and if he had been lonely… if he was still lonely. He knew perfectly well that just because you had friends it didn't mean you weren't alone. He of all people understood that very well.

 

“Do you ever wish you had siblings?” He asked, returning to his bunk.

 

“That counts as your second question,” His voice slipped into a thoughtful one, “And yeah, I guess I sometimes do. It gets too quiet around here without mom. But then again, I don't think I'd be good for the job.”

 

“The job?”

 

“Yeah, you know, like the patience. You saw how I handled that kid at the store. I don't think I'd be good with them.”

 

Marco moved the blanket closer to his face, fighting the urge to get naked like how he usually slept at home, “You know that saying about how people only like the smell of their own farts?”

 

“Ew. Yeah.”

 

“Well, siblings are like that.”

 

“Like farts?”

 

“Mmhmm. They're gross and drive you nuts sometimes, but they're yours so you deal with them.”

 

“So you like having a brother?”

 

“Yeah, I really do. We don't tell each other everything, and we do argue every once in awhile, but we're really close. Some days he makes me want to pull my hair out, other days he brightens them,” He shrugged, “Families are just living contradictions.”

 

“Sounds complicated.”

 

“Well, do you want kids when you're older?”

 

He heard Jean shift positions, “Not really. Maybe. Who knows. If I do, it'll probably only be one.”

 

“Really? I want five,” A deep yawn escaped his lips, “But anyway, if you end up having kids, you'll understand my fart analogy. Honestly, I’m sure you'd be a great brother.”

 

He sighed, “Oh yeah? And how do you know that? We haven't been around each other long enough for you to know that.”

 

“Because,” Marco felt his heart flutter, “you’re a good friend.”

 

Jean didn't respond. The room grew uncomfortably quiet, making him warm with embarrassment at his cheesy comment. He just felt like he had to say it because it was the truth. Jean had no idea how much he really was helping him out by tutoring and working on the project with him. It meant he wouldn't have to pay for potentially going to summer school, it meant his mother wouldn't have to worry about him pushing himself too hard, it meant he had peace of mind. He just wished Jean would tell him why he still didn't like him. That way he'd be able to fix their problem or back off a little bit. But then again, maybe he wouldn't.

 

The room remained quiet with the occasional sound of them moving within their blankets. He didn't know how long he waited for Jean to respond, but eventually he became too tired to worry about what he'd said. The little sting of rejection and confusion remained as he closed his own red tinted eyes. His mind began to drift into darkness when he heard the faintest words whisper its way out of Jean's mouth.

 

“Yeah, you too.”

 

\-----------------------

 

The air around the cafeteria smelled like soggy burgers and mop juice. It was a large place, so large that there were plenty of empty tables scattered around with the occasional loner sitting in one of them. Large posters with the school's football team were plastered around the lunchroom, serving as a reminder to each student that most of the money the school made always went to them.

 

Like the light streaks coming from the window rooftop, each person was moving in a million different directions. All the voices speaking above one another blurred into a single voice, a single being representing fifth period lunch. How could such a small planet hold all the stories people wanted to tell?

 

Marco scanned the area for no one in particular while he ate the breakfast sandwich Sasha had made for their table. They always seemed to be in an unofficial competition with the table from across on who could be the loudest. One of the girls were speaking in a shrill voice, using her hands to emphasis her words like his own family did when they all got together. The people around her were grimacing, but they didn't tell her to stop talking either.

 

“Marcoo? Are you there? Why are you so spacey today?,” Eren asked from his side, “You were like this during first period, too.”

 

“Huh?”

 

Armin reached from across the table to put a hand on his forehead, “Well, you're not sick, so that's good.”

 

“Hey! You should check yourself out! We're seniors now, we can go home whenever we want!”

 

_Not shrill, but loud._

 

Eren laughed, “Did you just figure that out, Sash?”

 

“No way, are you serious? Why is this the first time I'm hearing about this?” Ymir yelled from the end of the table.

 

“Don't even _think_ about it.” Warned Krista.

 

Marco and Bertholdt remained quiet while the rest of the group spoke about the rules on their (not so) new found privilege. He wasn't in the mood for talking, he wasn't in the mood for anything, really. The day before had really drained his energy, but it had also been a lot of firsts for him. His brain was still trying to process seeing all those delightful faces Jean had made during the movie and dealing with his hyper and childish side. It had also been the first time he had directly called him a friend. And it seemed like it had scared the other boy.

 

In the morning, he had awoken to a smack on the head for having one of Jean's pillows in between his legs. He made him feel like a pervert for something that was just for comfort, but he was glad Jean wasn't mad or ignoring him like he thought he would have. They took turns using the restroom fixing their cowlicks and getting dressed, then silently drank the remaining hot chocolate that was left in the pot for breakfast. No Pop-Tarts.

 

Before they took their own cars to school, Jean had suggested he sleep over again since they hadn't finished their project yet and needed to plan how Marco would act out each scene. He felt a mixture of happiness and guilt for letting his laziness win, but agreed.

 

There was just one thing that was still bothering him, though. He'd come out and ask Jean right away if he were any other person, but he was afraid of how he'd react to the questions fighting for space in his crowded mind. He couldn't stop wondering if he had heard right last night.

 

_Did Jean mean I was a good friend too? Was he just talking to himself? Or was it all something that I just made up on my own to make myself feel better?_

 

He didn't know and maybe he never would because if he really did mean he was a good friend, he wouldn't want to fuck it up with annoying the life out of Jean now. It was slowly building up to where he wanted it to go and it excited him. They had done enough of the two steps forward and three steps back dance to lose their progress. Marco was ready to have a steady relationship with him.

 

“Geez, would you look at these guys. They look like they got laid last night.” Ymir snickered, making the two boy's head snap in her direction.

 

The rest of the group laughed at Bertholdt’s reddening face, but Marco just felt confused, “Who? Bertholdt?”

 

“You _and_ Bertholdt.”

 

Krista giggled, “What are you guys thinking about? You look so happy.”

 

“Puh-lease,” Sasha rolled her eyes, speaking with a mouth full of food, “we already know who Berty is thinking about. Ain't that right, Berty? Did _anybody_ happen to finally propose to you?”

 

“N-No! Why would you ask that?”

 

Eren kicked her from underneath the table, “Yeah, Sash, why would you ask that? Everyone knows he's already a married man.”

 

She kicked him back, “Then why wasn't I invited to the ceremony?”

 

“Because we knew you'd eat everything.” Armin responded.

 

Bertholdt cleared his throat but didn't say anything else, neither denying nor confirming their statements.

 

Sometimes there are unwritten rules and known secrets that friends purposely didn't speak about. And an example of one of those cases were about Reiner and Bertholdt’s relationship. To those in the group that weren't dense enough to miss it, they knew how close the boys really were and how they had no name for what they were. They were more than friends, but less than lovers, stuck in an awkward inbetween that the rest occasionally witnessed.

 

“And what about you Marco? What's got you up in the clouds this time?” Eren asked, trying to move the spotlight away from his friend.

 

“Uh, well, I dunno if I told you guys about my dad recently.”

 

Their expressions stiffened and Marco instantly regretted using his father to save himself from saying Jean's name.

 

“Any good news?” Armin asked.

 

“Sorta. Me and Micah are planning on visiting him for Thanksgiving break.”

 

Sasha stared at him in surprise, “And he _agreed_?”

 

“Not really, no.” He took a sip of his milk, also swallowing down how pathetic he was beginning to feel. “We're going to surprise him.”

 

Ymir sighed, “When are you guys gonna give up on that man? He calls like twice in one year and you still don't take the hint. How many times do I have to tell you that boyfriends aren't the only people who can string you along? Parents do that shit all the time.”

 

“Ymir!” Krista warned. Nobody said anything else, he knew they all agreed with her.

 

“It's alright. I know he's far from perfect, but me and Micah still miss him. And I have a feeling things will go pretty great when we see him. I mean, it's not like he'd be mad to see his children, right?”

 

He earned a couple nods and tight lipped smiles from his friends. None had ever met his dad, but all of them didn't particularly like the man. They had memories of their freckled friend enthusiastically announcing to them how he said he'd be visiting next week, next month, next year, but it never happened, and they had to watch him perfect his broken smiles.

 

“Let us know how it goes, ok?” Bert patted his back, trying to lighten up the mood.

 

Eren nodded, “Yeah, we could all get fucked up and celebrate you finally seeing him if you want.”

 

“Yeah, ok.”

 

“Speaking of getting messed up,” Armin huffed, “Sasha, are you planning on throwing a party after your play?”

 

“Nope! There's gonna be a special party for the cast and crew members _only_ ,” She turned to Ymir, “Hitch said you can come since you were part of the crew before you got all responsible and started working.”

 

“Hitch the Bitch? I think I'll pass.”

 

“But her house is ginormous! And think of all the food she's gonna have! Let me know if you change your mind.”

 

“Nice, that actually works out perfectly. Gives us more time to think of how to celebrate Armin's birthday.”

 

“Eren, we're still in September.” The blond pointed out.

 

“Not even! Tomorrow's the first of October. Never hurts to plan early anyway.”

 

Everyone agreed and began throwing out suggestions.

 

“I say we take you to a strip club. I know you don't like chicks, but oh man, I swear you'll change your mind if you--”

 

“Anyways. How about going to the fair? I think it'd be cute for all of us to wear matching party hats and I could make us all lunch so we don't have to buy all that unhealthy food they have.”

 

“I only go for the shitty food. Speaking of which! I heard if you go to the buffets in midtown and tell them it's your birthday, they let half your party eat for free. And since there's twelve of us, we'd only pay for six people! _Six_!”

 

“Th-That still sounds a little expensive. If you decide to do something that'll last late into the night, please let me know so I can plan what time to sneak back home.”

 

“Whatever you choose to do, how do you feel about receiving bud as a present? I still have leftovers from the ounce Daz gave me.”

 

“Ok, ok, ok,” Eren waved his hands to make everyone stop talking, “you guys are all over the place. Do you have any ideas, Armin?”

 

He looked down in embarrassment. They all knew their little friend wasn't used to being the center of attention, which was why they loved it when he had to make decisions, that he categorized as ‘selfish’, for himself.

 

“Do you guys know about Barracks?”

 

Sasha gasped, “You mean the club?”

 

“Yeah, I think it's a gay club on Friday's and I've never been to any club before. I just thought it'd be interesting to go, I think it'd be fun if we all went together.”

 

Marco loved the idea, he'd never been to a club either because it'd never caught his attention before. Barracks was a notorious place for people of all sorts of ages to go, which was the unappealing part. It was famous for its lack of security, the drugs people brought and used inside the place, the nastiness that went on in the bathroom stalls, and the drunken fights that occurred in its parking lot. It was a bit dangerous, but the thought of doing something new and reckless was appealing.

 

“I love it. Let's do it.” Ymir smiled. They could all practically see the lewdness going on in her head.

 

“Are you sure?” Eren asked, “We could always just get super high together at Sasha's place.”

 

Sasha shook her head, “I'm with Armin on this one.”

 

“Me too. I'm curious to see how it is.” Agreed Krista.

 

Eren looked at Bertholdt and Marco for backup, but they gently shook their heads at him.

 

“You guys really wanna go?”

 

“You don't like clubs, Eren?” Marco asked.

 

“He probably doesn't know how to dance.”

 

“Ymir, you've seen me dance. I could start my own boy band with the moves I have.”

 

She bursted out laughing, “Ok then! It's settled, we're going to the club!”

 

Marco listened to his friends excitedly talk about what they'd be wearing and who would be riding with who, but he kept a close watch on Eren. For some reason he didn't look too happy about the decision, the expression on his face let him know he was also confused as well as agitated. It didn't help that Armin kept shooting the flustered boy concerned looks. Something in his gut told him he was witnessing something that should only be shared between the two boys and looked away.

 

Time blurred by as lunch finished. He walked beside Armin as they made their way to their calculus class. He wished they didn't have assigned seats so they could speak more about their faraway plans, but the look on the blond's face made it clear that he was in his own world and not in the mood for talking. It always seemed to amaze him how he knew his friends so well, and yet, his knowledge of them was just the tip of the iceberg. Everyone was their own planet and they were all revolving around one another with different and unexplainable things going on inside them.

 

Mr. Schultz was waiting for his students outside the class door, handing them a thick packet before they entered. It was another study guide, but this time it was for their midterms that still seemed to be a great distance away. Marco, and the rest of the students, knew it'd be another boring note-taking day.

 

It was a shame the school was big on tradition. Many of the teachers didn't hide their feelings of distaste for the way things were run - not even the principal. Their problems were way up with the board of education and how they insisted on keeping everything the same since the beginning of time. They said if you repeated an answer to a question enough times, eventually the students would have to memorize it or else fail. Learning anything but what was in their textbooks would cause them problems.

 

Marco sat down in his desk in the back of the room. The seat in front of him had become empty since last week. Apparently, another senior quit. Sometimes that's all he wanted to do as well, but then he'd remember about all of his mother's sacrifices and he’d guilt himself to the point where he forcibly enjoyed school as much as he could.

 

He tried his best to not fall asleep during class, but it was such an easy subject to him that he lost interest quickly. He wished it'd be like that in Language Arts, but then again, maybe it was fated from the start that he had to be horrible at it. If it wasn't for his lack of understanding, he never would've been able to work with Jean the way he was right now.

 

It never felt right to him that the twelve were considered a group when two of them never got along, but now things were changing. He didn't know why he loved that they were a complete circle now. All he knew was that he was happy about being closer to Jean.

 

The dismissal bell jerked him awake as the class jumped up to their feet and shoved their papers in their book bags, impatient to get out of the white walled room. Marco packed his own stuff away, half listening to the poor teacher's wasted threat to hold them back for five minutes if they left, but most of the class was already gone.

 

Armin waited for him outside the class so they could walk together until their directions changed. He looked down at his short friend, he still seemed to be in his thoughts.

 

“I'm really looking forward to your birthday.” Marco said, in hopes that that'd cheer him up, but it made worry lines appear on Armin's face instead.

 

“You are? Do you think everyone else will like the idea?”

 

“Definitely. Especially Reiner, you know how much he loves to dance. If you're worried about what Eren said, don't be. I think he was just worried about the club's reputation.”

 

“What reputation?”

 

_Oh fuck._

 

“N-Nothing. I heard it gets pretty wild,” He quickly headed to the staircase, “I'll see you tomorrow!”

 

They waved bye to each other before they were separated by the coursing river that was made up of rainbow students. He couldn't believe he was about to ruin his friend's birthday plans. There wasn't a doubt in his head that Armin would change the location of his party if he caught wind of how dangerous it really was, even if they all reassured him they'd watch out for each other and make sure nothing happened to any of them while they danced, Armin was smart enough not to believe them. It wouldn't be a solid promise because Eren was notorious for getting into fights with strangers, Ymir had a reputation for sleeping around, Bertholdt never shied away from drugs or alcohol, and Jean just caused trouble in general.

 

_Jean_

 

He really was a trouble maker, intentionally or not, weird things always happened when he was around. Weird and amusing.

 

He couldn't help the jitters in his body as he neared their anatomy class. On the first day of school, Jean had been nothing more than a stranger with zero patience, and now he was a friend with zero patience, but who was secretly a softie. If he tried hard enough, he'd probably be able to convince Jean to continue their game of twenty-one questions.

 

When he entered the classroom, it was still pretty empty. He smiled at Mikasa and her lab partner as he passed their desk and went to sit in his own. Sasha was surprisingly there already, drawing what looked like a potato with a stick figure body being boiled alive. He noticed Eren and Jean's table was still vacant.

 

“Ah, we meet again.”

 

“Hey,” Marco took his seat beside her, “What's that thing you're drawing?”

 

She angrily sighed, “Connie.”

 

_They're still having problems?_

 

“Are you guy's fighting?”

 

“We're not fighting.”

 

“Then what's--”

 

“I can't fight with someone who ignores me.”

 

He wanted to yell out that Connie felt the same way she did, but it wasn't his place to give out that sort of important information, “I'm sorry. I’m sure things will work out soon enough.”

 

She stopped drawing, “How'd you and Jean do it?”

 

“Do what?”

 

“Start talking. You guys are friends now right? You avoided each other so much before and now you're close and stuff.”

 

He could only wish, “We're not _that_ close, Sash.”

 

“Sure you are. You even have inside jokes,” She grabbed one of his hands and started playing with the skin around his nails. It was one of her bizarre habits that she's had since forever, “I can tell because Jean is like an open book. Every time he hears the word ‘break’ he looks at you with a constipated face.”

 

“R-Really? Well, I guess we are a little close, but I don't think our situations are the same. We started talking by making fun of each other. I don't know why Connie is ignoring you,” He lied with a heavy heart, “but it won't hurt to face him straight on and ask him what's causing him to act that way.

 

_Forgive me Connie._

 

“I'll try anything at this point. I guess ignoring him back was a bad idea. Life would be easier if he was a well seasoned pot of chicken ‘cause food never caused me this much trouble. Not even when it was spoiled… geez, why are boys so complicated?”

 

“Well, we just… we just really suck sometimes. Most of the times. All of the times.”

 

“I know,” Eren said as he took his seat across from them, startling the two, “We're the worst, aren't we Jean?”

 

“Absolute trash,” he agreed, keeping his back towards them as he slumped into his chair.

 

Their words made Sasha's grumpy face break with a smile. Marco knew they were trying to cheer her up, even though they didn't know what the two of them had been talking about before. He loved his friends and how much they all really did look out for one another. And he never wanted anything to change between them.

 

He grabbed her hand that traced the lines of his rough palm and squeezed, “You guys'll be fine. I promise. Can't have bacon without bacon grease, right?”

 

She laughed, her brownie eyes twinkling with confidence as she grinned up at him, “Right. I'll talk to Bacon when the right moment comes up.”

 

Class eventually started, and they all fell into their regular routine of waiting for a sorry sucker to pass out so Dr. Zoe could shoot them awake. Different noises would easily distract the students from the lecture. Squeaking shoes, the ticking of the clock, someone dropping a pencil, an exaggerated sneeze - it was all more interesting than the names of their bones.

 

Even Marco's gaze would shift around the room. He stared at Nac, one of the kids who sat in the front of the room, whose head kept bobbing up and down with sleepiness. He stared until he felt eyes on him coming directly from across. When he looked at Eren's table, Eren was on his phone while Jean was just scratching the back of his head.

 

With a long yawn, Marco laid his head on the black table and jot down whatever he thought was important from Dr. Zoe's words. His eyes quickly darted back up when he got the same feeling again, but then felt silly when he saw Jean just looking at the posters that were next to their tables. If he didn't know any better, he'd say Jean was trying to mess with him.

 

He kept his eyes fixated at the back of his two-toned head, just in case he really was staring at him. It kind of reminded him of when Jean came over to his house. He had half fallen asleep while his mother had been talking to Jean downstairs, and when he opened his eyes, he was at the door holding their drinks and just gazing at him with a weird look on his face. He still didn't know what to make of that.

 

A short minute passed before he discovered Jean's head slowly turning to his direction. When their eyes met, Marco stuck out his tongue with victory that he had caught him. He almost laughed at Jean's reaction, but then the other boy silently mouthed the words, “pillow pervert” at him.

 

“I am not a--” He stopped himself before he could further embarrass himself in front of the whole class.

 

Jean silently laughed with the rest of the students as he turned around to face the front of the room. Sasha nudged him with confusion on her face, but he shrugged his shoulders and pretended to be enraptured by the continuing lesson.

 

_After how many years and I'm still being teased by the same boy?_

 

He didn't mind it at all. Things were different now, way different. Back then Jean's voice always carried a bit of fear and stiffness when he snapped at him. And although he could tell that Jean was starting to loosen up, their conversations were still a little rigid and felt too careful. He could understand why he hated him back then, who wouldn't hate the person who embarrassed them in front of the whole school? But now that he was thinking about it, he didn't understand why Jean was reluctant to get to know him after all this time.

 

The boy didn't even speak to strangers the way he spoke to him. He was more carefree with everyone else. It was only with Marco that he'd put up a shield and hide behind. Sasha was right, Jean was an open book, but not open enough to reveal why he continued to treat Marco like a germ.

 

Was it possible that he wanted a proper apology from him after all these years? He doubted it, but it wouldn't hurt to try. He would take his own advice and with determination building up inside him, he decided he'd face him straight on and apologize for what had happened all those years ago… he'd do it when the right moment came up. When he felt certain that Jean wouldn't get flustered about it. When he'd finally accept him as a friend.

 

His eyes involuntarily moved up to look for Jean, and he was surprised that he was already staring at him again. This time he didn't make a move to call him names. He just coolly and slowly looked away and rested his hand on his chin.

 

Marco would've felt more embarrassed about the blush on his face if it weren't for how Jean's ears were burning pink.


	11. Scintillating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes two souls have already been the best of friends before the mind and the heart can catch up, you don't always need wise words to bond with a person, being reckless together can do the job just right, and 420 blaze it bitches

“ _Ah!_ , Jean. I-It's still too tight.”

 

“Calm down. I've stretched it as much as I could already.”

 

Marco whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut only to open them wide again, “Ok, just do it slowly, please, it really hurts.”

 

“You'll be fine,” He said with as much patience as he could, trying not to stare directly at Marco's flushed face, “It won't hurt after it's all the way in.”

 

“O-Okay.”

 

The last day of September had decided to be a warm one. The lowering sunlight coming from Jean's open window was still strong and it made his room humid and hot, but every now and then a merciful gust of wind would blow inside and cool the sweat on their faces. It felt like summer was finally giving its overdue goodbye to the panting boys.

 

“Alright,” Jean nodded at the scared boy, preparing him as he put his hands on the back of his head again, “I'm going to give it one more good thrust before we give you a break.”

 

“Ok,” He swallowed, “I'm ready.”

 

“On the count of three, alright? One… twothree!”

 

“ _Merda!_ ”

 

Jean gasped, “It's in!”

 

“R-Really?” He felt the top of his head with trembling fingers then sank down to the floor where he had just been standing, “Thank god.”

 

“Wow, I was starting to think this wig would never fit on your big ass head.”

 

After their anatomy class had ended, the two went their separate ways without saying one word or even taking a glance in the other's direction. Marco had been in charge of finishing their summaries while Jean on getting his hands on costumes. They had plans to execute and since it was their last day to work on their project, they tried to take their dedication to their work seriously for once, but it hadn't lasted that long.

 

They had spent over an hour playing around with all of the costumes the drama club let them borrow. Most of it smelled like moths and had collected dust, but there were goodies mixed in as well. One of the pair of wings they had taken turns messing around with stretched as far as their arms, but some of its wires had become undone and poked at their skin. It was dirty with age and had had an accident with glitter years ago, giving it a fairy tale look. It was a sad pair of wings, but it was perfect for a story about a fallen angel.

 

Jean had tried to convince the president of the club if he could borrow more than just one wig and a bald cap, but she had said no and shooed him away like a dog. Connie and Sasha had tried to sneak him more options, but the Bitch, as they had called her, threatened to kick them out of the play when they got caught. He wondered how far up the stick in the junior’s ass was for her to order around a couple of seniors.

 

“Did your mom ever find out I was here last night?” Marco asked from below. He was sprawled out like a starfish on the carpet with brooms surrounding him.

 

Jean went and sat on his desk chair that had been near his closet door, “Nope. Told ya we'd be fine. What about your mom? I’m surprised she let you come again.”

 

“She knows my grades are important. Plus it helped that I told her I slept on the downstairs sofa and that you guys gave me the best blankets in the house.”

 

_Just how protective is she?_

 

Jean wheeled himself closer to the open window, “Well, that's half a lie. I've got the best-est blankets and pillows, but I'm sure your thighs know that already.”

 

Marco quickly sat up, the tightness from the wig was beginning to leave the skin around his head pink, “Jean, that was really embarrassing! I'm surprised I didn't get shot at for speaking out.”

 

He didn't have to ask him what he was babbling about. He knew perfectly well his comment was directed towards his little outburst during class. Half of him thought it was amusing because he hadn't expected Marco to get so defensive about it, but his other half felt like shit because he had taken his name calling to the heart.

 

“Relax, it's not like you actually said ‘pillow pervert’ out loud. Was it… was it _really_ that bad?”

 

The sun’s light hid behind a cloud as he questionably looked down at Marco. He hoped none of the concern he felt showed on the outside, since he knew first hand how it felt like to be humiliated in front of a crowd. If Marco was mad at him, he really wouldn't blame him.

 

When the class’s giggling had died, Jean had been so worried about him that he turned around to make sure he wasn't silently bawling his eyes out on Sasha's shoulder - since it seemed like something he'd do. To his amazement, he found the other boy deep in thought with fire, rather than tears, in his eyes. The look on his face threw him off so much that he got caught staring like a creeper.

 

“No, it wasn't that bad,” He lied back down and threw an arm behind his neck for comfort, “but what _is_ bad is what you think I was doing to your pillow for you to call me that.”

 

“Humping it, duh.”

 

“Jean!”

 

“Marco!”

 

He laughed, “I'm not a dog. I don't hump pillows.”

 

“Well then why else would you do that?”

 

He wiped the sweat from the tip of his peppered nose, “I don't like my knees touching, it makes me feel uncomfortable.”

 

“Either you're lying… or you're just really weird.”

 

“I'm not a dog.” He repeated, giving him the closest thing to a frown he'd ever seen, but it looked more like he was begging Jean to believe him.

 

“You could be. You could pass for a Dalmatian.”

 

That earned him a smile, “Yeah, I probably could.”

 

Marco threw his other arm up like if he was trying to reach the ceiling, inspecting the spots on his tan skin. His thin happy trail was visible again along with the very few freckles he had on his lower stomach compared to the amount he had on his face. Jean hadn't gotten a great view of how many he really had yet. During the night he went to see his match he had been too far away and on the day of his soccer game, he had been too drunk to care about anything.

 

“Okaaay,” Jean got up and quickly went to his desk across the room, “we should start making more progress since the project is due to-fucking-morrow.”

 

“Oh, right.”

 

“Did you finish those summaries?” He asked as he took out their supplies from one of his clustered drawers.

 

“Yup,” He could hear Marco unzipping his book bag from behind, “they're short and understandable just like yours.”

 

_Just like mine, he says. Is he trying to flatter me?_

 

Jean turned around and sat cross legged in the middle of his rug, dumping the construction paper, glue, scissors, and eyes on top of wooden sticks. Last night had been an easy time to work since he had had all that energy to burn through, but now as he was looking at the mess around them, he was losing the rest of the motivation he had tried to save for a shitty day. It didn't help that their work looked like a crackhead and the living dead had created it.

 

“They're so damn ugly,” Jean moaned, “This was supposed to be the easy part.”

 

“I think they look fine.”

 

“Of course you would think that. How many more monstrosities do we need to make?”

 

“Let's see,” He scratched his now purple skin, “well, Mr. Frankenstein, we've got two more that need noses, three that need mouths, eight that need eyes, and all of them lack originality.”

 

“I-I can't do this sober. I need a Pop-Tart.”

 

“But you'll crash and then we'd really fail because it'd be up to me to finish everything.”

 

“Ok, fuck the sugar. Just pinch me if I start giving up,” He looked at the white wig, “But first, take that thing off. It's gonna stop the blood from reaching your brain.”

 

“I don't think it's stretched enough yet.”

 

“Doesn't matter. We don't even need it since the angel has no hair in the story.”

 

“I was kinda hoping we could use this instead of the bald cap.” He sheepishly said.

 

“Your funeral.”

 

He grabbed one of the scissors and began making the best nose he could. It still ended up looking like another basic triangle, and although he was slightly gifted in the arts, doing grade-level cutting was not one of the talents he possessed.

 

The noises of metal cutting paper filled the room, along with a car driving by and one of his neighbors blasting music from down the street. His windows slightly vibrated as they worked in the stuffy air.

 

Jean stared at one of the completed brooms near his knee. It really did look like shit, he didn't understand how they could've seen one and think it was a good idea to keep doing more. The first thing that was wrong with it was its gigantic eyes. Not only were they too big for its triangular face, but one of its irises was looking up to the left while the other down to the right. The lips, if you'd even call it that, were more like two thin banana-looking disasters and the noses were either button or triangle shaped. They had no arms, eyebrows, or ears and they probably never would.

 

Wasn't Marco supposed to be the pure and reliable one? Why didn't he tell him this was the dumbest idea in the whole entire world? Was he too scared to say something like that or did he really, truly, genuinely think they looked ok? He already knew the answer to that one. Jean was beginning to feel like shit for putting them through all that work only to get results like these.

 

“Officially done with the noses!” Marco cheered as he glued the construction paper to his broom at the same time as Jean.

 

His freckled hands lovingly touched his broom child as if it were the new Mona Lisa ready to be put on display for the world to view, but it still looked like the rest of the uglies laying on the floor. Jean wanted to grab a lighter and create a bonfire right there in his room, but that might end up with him making Marco cry for real.

 

Then again, sometimes Jean was convinced that there was nothing that could possibly bring any distress to the other boy. Name calling barely fazed him, getting him fired only brought them closer, and losing his boxing match only broke his spirit for two seconds. He'd probably thank him for giving the heat extra warmth if he did set the place on fire. Marco was a duracell bunny that never ran out of happiness and he was envious of that.

 

“How in the hell do you stay optimistic all the time? We just started and I already need a break.”

 

He shrugged with a grin, “I've got lots of motivation.”

 

“Oh yeah? I could really use some right now. Where can I buy some of this magical motivation you know so much about?” He rhetorically asked, but his question seemed to make him squirm.

 

“You can't _buy_ it, Jean.”

 

“I _know_ , Marco. I was just kidding.”

 

He raised an eyebrow at him before returning to his work. The creepy plastic eyes oogled him as he placed them onto the difficult twigs. They were vacant orbs, but they still sent chills down his spin with how animated they made the broom appear. The piss in his bladder would leave his body in a matter of seconds if he ever woke up to the townspeople standing upright and facing his direction. Luckily he wasn't going to be sleeping alone again.

 

And that was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because he'd have someone to speak to and they'd fill in the emptiness of his house with their own noises. A curse because he knew he'd have to be alone again after they left. Sometimes he felt like an addict whenever Sasha stayed over his place. He could easily tell her no, that she couldn't sleep there anymore, but the calmness it brought him was too hard to reject. If there was one thing he hated more than forcing himself to get used to the silence over and over again, it was letting the chance of company go by.

 

Jean looked up to see how far along Marco was getting. The bottom of his lip was being chewed on as he accidentally squeezed too much glue onto the flat surface of the plastic eye. He whispered out something in his native language after his clumsy hands dropped and smeared it on his pants. It took Jean a while to figure out something was bothering him.

 

“What's up with you?”

 

He stopped moving, “What do you mean?”

 

“You're acting weird.”

 

“No I'm not.”

 

“Is it the wig? Is it finally getting to you? I told you to take it off, didn't I? Go to the bathroom and see how purple your skin is.”

 

“It's not the wig. The wig is fine.”

 

“You don't look fine.”

 

“It's ok, I can't even feel it on me anymore.”

 

“Yeah, that's the problem.”

 

He shrugged, “It’s ok.”

 

Jean was surprised at how stubborn he was being, but he wasn't about to let Marco out flaw him. Sometimes his hard headedness could be useful for situations like these. Whatever you are, be a damn good one, right? With that in mind, he stubbornly sent daggers of ice to Marco with his eyes. Not once did the other boy look up to meet him, but Jean knew he could feel it because of how he wasn't able to sit still.

 

“You look paranoid.”

 

“Me? Paranoid? I'm not paranoid.”

 

“That's what paranoid people say,” He crossed his arms, “Look me in the face. Does it look like I was born yesterday?”

 

Marco kept his eyes down, “I'm not hiding anything.”

 

“Who said anything about hiding?” He laughed, “You just gave yourself away.”

 

“N-No, I just knew you were going to say that next.”

 

“C’mon, Bott, you know you lost this one.”

 

He seemed to have thought it over for a while, but then shook his head, “I'm really not hiding anything, Jean.”

 

If there was one thing he learned from action packed movies, it was that torture and threats were effective tools to use when you needed to extract useful information from someone. Without removing his glare from the twitchy boy, he snatched his own bottle of glue and slowly twisted the cap side to side for dramatic affect. The disgust on Marco's face from last night when he had smeared it all over his hands was still fresh in his mind.

 

“This can go in two ways,” He said as he squeezed the bottle until white gooeyness spilled from the hole, “you tell me why you're acting funny and remain clean, or I put eighty-year-old jizz all over your face. You being distracted is only gonna slow us down.”

 

Marco's dark eyebrows furrowed with fear while he continued to chew on his lip. Jean felt bad that he took everything so seriously and with full emotions, but it was probably better than feeling nothing but dullness like how he experienced… like he _usually_ experienced. He had to admit that ever since he and Marco started acknowledging each other’s existence, things have been more interesting. Interesting in an anxiety induced way.

 

“Ok I'll spill! But you have to promise you won't kick me out or yell at me.”

 

“I'm not going to… hey, you didn't kill anyone, did you?”

 

“No, nothing like that! Just promise, ok?”

 

He rolled his eyes, “I fucking promise.”

 

“Alright, uh, well you know that magical motivation you asked about?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Well, it's called weed and I smoked some before I came here but that doesn't mean I'm not taking our grade seriously!”

 

Jean opened his mouth to say something, then shut it back down before bursting out with laughter. He didn't know how Marco could possibly think he'd kick him out just because of _that_. It'd be hypocritical of him to do so since everyone they knew smoked at every get together like how every birthday party had cake.

 

“So you're high?” He asked, setting down the glue and readjusting his posture.

 

“Just a little. It was just one small drag. It takes a lot more than that for it to affect me too much. Are you mad?”

 

“Why would I…” Jean couldn't believe he was the only clear headed one when just a few minutes ago he was thinking of how pure the other boy might be. And the worst part was that he hadn't offered to share when he still had all that weed left from Sasha's hangout. Or at least that's what he thought. For all he knew Marco was a grass addict who gained all his optimism from toking. That seemed more realistic than thinking he was made up of batteries, “Wait, is that why you came over so late?”

 

“Oh no, I was at school for a pretty long time, then I had to go back home and get more clothes,” He played around with an eye, “I wanted to offer you some, but I didn't know how you'd react since homes should be respected and everything.”

 

He had thought he'd been abandoned after waiting an hour for Marco, fighting with himself that he could either do the whole project by himself or not turn a single thing in and fail, but deep down he knew the other boy wouldn't do that to his grade… or him. It had been rewarding letting Marco apologize through the door for five minutes anyway.

 

“You worry too much. And it's not like we'd be doing anything to the place. I can fuck myself up without damaging the house.”

 

Marco's head tilted down, but his eyes looked up at Jean, and in the most puppy-like way he asked, “Do you want to smoke right now? I brought it with me just in case.”

 

_Pure my ass!_

 

“S-Sure.”

 

“It's in my car, um, where do you wanna… ?”

 

“Outside,” He blurted, “outside in my backyard.”

 

“You sure?”

 

Jean stiffly nodded, suddenly feeling like he was thirteen again and about to smoke for the first time in his life. Every cell in his body was warning him that it was a bad idea since tomorrow was the due date to the ever so important project Marco was stressing out about, but the deal was done, he agreed to it already. Besides, how lame would he look if he changed his mind?

 

_Fuck it, at least I'm not about to get drunk. Then we'd have a real problem._

 

He got up and grabbed his sweater even though they had been sweating not too long ago. He went to the window, shut it, and drapped the curtains over the shades. There was no harm in preparing for the worst, and just in case the two boys did something reckless, he didn't want the front door neighbors to witness it and tattle on him.

 

“It's in my car,” Marco repeated as he stood up, “I'll meet you in the back.”

 

The two slowly went downstairs, neither wanting to show how excited they really were. But along with the excitement, Jean was afraid of how it'd go. Unlike when he was drunk he was more quiet and thoughtful when high. Or at least that's how he was when the whole group got together. He'd never been high on his own, let alone a single person. It sounded too desolate.

 

He watched Marco quickly leave through the front door while he headed towards the back, both hadn't bothered putting on any shoes. The pot of leftover chicken soup on the stove comforted his insides as he passed through his kitchen. He'd have to remember to reheat it later for when they were desperate and starving.

 

Crickets were already annoyingly chirping once he was outside even though the sun was just starting to set. He shrugged on his sweater to get the sense that he was unseen and stuck his hands in his jean pockets, suddenly not knowing what to do with them. There was another emotion beginning to form in his gut but he couldn't quite figure its name out. It was the feeling of a routine being broken and he welcomed it with open arms.

 

“Hey kid, you sure you wanna smoke some reefer?” Marco whispered as he came out of the sliding door.

 

“Shut up,” Jean crookedly smiled at him, he didn't believe he'd only taken one hit, “You sound like a creep.”

 

He chuckled his way next to Jean, “Your neighbors are probably going to smell it.”

 

“It's ok,” His eyes stayed focused on the way Marco pulled out a plastic baggie with a joint inside from his long sleeved shirt, “I think one of ‘em sells drugs anyway.”

 

“It's a good thing you have a wooden fence. That way they won't know which house it's coming from.”

 

“Oh, yeah, right.”

 

He watched the very experienced boy remove it from the bag and then inspect it for a couple of seconds before lighting it with a Zippo. He offered it first to Jean, but the thought of being observed and judged made him itch. With a shake of his head, he let Marco's plump lips wrap itself around the white material first. His cheeks slightly hollowed as he inhaled with his eyes closing in familiarity. The smoke remained in his lungs as he passed the bud to Jean.

 

While he inhaled, Marco exhaled, forming a cloud above their heads. Jean furrowed his eyebrows as he held his own in. He remembered why he usually preferred drinking when he started coughing. Luckily he had done it enough times to know how to make himself stop, but that didn't stop the sympathetic smile from forming on Marco's face.

 

Back when he was in middle school, Jean had taken his first smoke in an abandoned house with Daz, Eren and Thomas. None of them knew what they were doing, but Daz liked to pretend he did since his older brother supposedly had allowed him to do it in their house. The most lucid thing he could remember about it was how their friend explained the different types of lungs weed smokers had because of how ridiculous it sounded.

 

There were baby lungs, big lungs and no lungs. Jean had passed his baby level years ago, which was why he was so impressed with how unfazed Marco was by the drug. He really seemed to have no lungs.

 

They moved the joint back and forth a couple more times. With fingers never touching and eyes never meeting, the moisture from their lips blended together as it went from one mouth to the other until Jean felt himself becoming lighter and infected with freckled germs. A gentle wave from the wind could probably pluck his dirty soul right out of the ground.

 

“It's pretty strong.” He heard Marco say. He was still wearing the hideous wig.

 

“Mm.”

 

_Liar. You sound like one of those people who eat spicy food like nothing, comment on how spicy it is, and then continue to eat it._

 

Jean looked down at his itching foot. An orange lady bug was crawling over his big toe, tickling him as it went across one of his blond hairs. He wasn't wearing any socks and was becoming conscious of how pale his skin appeared against the dark gray concrete patio they were standing on. There was no need to buy glow-in-the-dark anything when he could glow in the dark with his own body.

 

He reached down to place the harmless bug onto a nearby yellow flower that was growing out of a dry weed. As he leaned back up, he could feel his sweater touching the bare skin on his arms and the hair on his forehead scratching his eyes like tiny hands trying to blind him.

 

“Hey aren't you hot wearing a sweater?”

 

_Yes._

 

“No,” He coughed, “Aren't you hot with that death trap around your head?”

 

Marco answered with nothing but a giggle.

 

An airplane overhead slowly made its way across the sky, catching the attention of the two boys. All the passengers could see them and they were making notes in their adult heads to lecture their children about peer pressure and how to say no. They could see the troublemakers, but the troublemakers couldn't see them. No matter how hard Jean squinted up at the sky, the blinking lights were just a machine miles and miles away.

 

His paranoia was like the trees in the neighborhood that helped the smell of their herb safely make its way around. Their trunks were arms and the air was their accomplice. Their mission was to get the boys caught but Jean knew that wasn't going to happen because he could be a kivk ass spy if he really wanted to.

 

The music from down the street stopped playing, amplifying the noises it had been drowning before. The humming of the neighbor's air conditioner mixed with the singing of the birds and the instruments of the critters hiding in tall grass. The duo couldn't think of anything better to listen to while they watched the sun lowering itself behind a shitty background.

 

“I like your mom's garden.” Marco said as he was handed the joint again.

 

There wasn't much of a garden left. The cold morning had refrigerated the last surviving squashes while the afternoon heat microwaved it. All that was left was a big pile of mush, flies and their maggot babies. Many of the stray cats had used it as bathroom without either him or his mom ever noticing, so the only colorful thing left standing were the mushrooms sprouting out of the dirt.

 

“Everything is dead.”

 

“I still like it. Has a nice brown color.”

 

“Ok, thanks,” Jean accepted the joint again with his fingers and felt the need to compliment his mother as well, “Your mom has pretty brown skin.”

 

“Oh, thanks,” Marco cocked his head to the side, “Jean are you high?”

 

“Not yet.” He lied.

 

On the inside he was trying hard not to concentrate on how he was such a horrible complimenter and that Marco was horrible for not noticing how he had just unintentionally compared his mother's skin to the rotten vegetables in his yard even though they looked nothing alike. If he thought too hard, he felt like he'd never be able to crawl out of his own head. He kept his eyes focused on the dot in the sky that was actually an airplane instead.

 

“Clouds are pretty.” Marco mumbled.

 

“Mm.” Jean agreed.

 

“Looks like cotton candy.”

 

“Mmmm.”

 

“Pink like my color.”

 

“Mm?”

 

He felt embarrassed by how quickly the weed was hitting him now. He could practically feel the whiteness in his eyes turning pink like the scenery Marco was describing. The last time he had smoked was in August, the first day he had spoken to the brunet in forever. And he still remembered what the first thing he had spat out to him was. Just thinking about it made his guts feel like a water balloon.

 

_”I won! Nice try, Freckles!”_

 

It was funny how they went from that to doing illegal activities together, as if there had never been that great big gap between them with a million question marks still following them around. The world was a strange place. Strange and funny and shitty.

 

And most of the time it was shitty thanks to his stupid mouth. He swore god made him into one of those toys with a string attached to his back with limited phrases. His own hands would pull said string when no one really needed his opinions and uselessness was all that would spill out. He wasn't broken but he still needed to be fixed.

 

In fear of saying anything idiotic, he shook his head at Marco's pass without saying a word and stuffed his hands back into his pockets. He loved his sweater and how it made him feel like he was being kept a secret from everyone in the whole wide world.

 

Everyone except Marco. The smoke kissing his freckled face along with the ridiculous wig still stuck on his head reminded him of the hipster picture of Albert Einstein everyone seemed to have seen floating on the internet. Except this Einstein was tan, muscular and had trouble with the complexity of senior literature.

 

“You done?” Marco asked.

 

He nodded.

 

“You ok?”

 

Another nod.

 

_Hey, stop looking at me like that, I'm fine. Just don't make me talk or I'll either embarrass myself or yell at you for no reason._

 

The other boy studied him with concern, as if he didn't believe Jean when all this time he was the one who was pretending to be an angel, “You can go inside if you want… or do you think you're good for one more?”

 

The way Marco asked reminded him or his mother and how she'd say, “You don't have to finish what's on your plate… or do you think you can eat another three servings?” She cared, but she was always asking for too much. Always asking for the minimum but it felt like too much. Most of the questions she asked him made him feel like he wanted to go to bed and crawl inside the caves of his blankets.

 

“ _Je vais me coucher_.” He responded, thinking he was speaking to his mom.

 

“What?”

 

“Shit, wrong language,” He turned around and headed towards the glass door, “‘M going in.”

 

He didn't wait for Marco's response as he briskly walked inside without fully closing the door. His feet thanked him when the cool tiles touched his burning skin, but then cursed him out when he dashed up the wooden stairs. It suddenly didn't feel too fair that Marco was practically immune to the effects of marijuana while he was a virgin compared to him. Next time he'd ask for more so he can get at his level.

 

Jean sat down at his old spot and concentrated on his breathing. He ripped off his sweater and laid down on the floor, looking up at the starless ceiling. The walls were moving like a ship in the ocean and there were lights dancing in swirling motions around him from running too quickly. How nice it would've been to have had a window A/C at that moment.

 

_Shit, I'm high. I'm so high, calm down. Fuck, that really was strong. Feels like I'm floating on water. God, it's so nice, but how the hell are we going to work now?_

 

He could hear slow footsteps nearing his bedroom until Marco's face popped up. Jean watched him tip toe his way inside as if he were sleeping, but they were staring at each other's emotionless faces. The sleeves on Marco's shirt were rolled up past his elbows, its red color only amplified the flush on his face from the heat. He tried to wipe a bead of sweat from his brow, but the Einstein wig was still bound to his head. A few black strings of wavy hair peeked out from under it, saying hi to his room from different directions. His eyes were half lidded and yet appeared bigger than usual, almost as big as the eyes they had bought at the store.

 

Marco took his time walking inside. He laid down on his belly with his head near Jean's, forming a seven shape with their bodies as he kicked around a couple brooms to make some space. Jean got a whiff of his scent when he moved around. He reeked of bad choices.

 

“You have Walmart eyes.” Jean said, focusing back to the ceiling.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I mean googly eyes. You have googly eyes.”

 

“No way, is one of them floating?”

 

“What?”

 

The drywall and plaster was replaced by the unintentional cosplay of a science man. His face inched close enough for Jean to be able to see a few individual red veins surrounding his honey iris.

 

“Am I cock eyed right now? Jean, be honest, you're scaring me.”

 

He waved his hand with a giggle, “No, you're not cock whatever. You're fine. Forget what I said. I dunno where I was going with it anyways.”

 

“Promise?”

 

“What is up with you and promises today? Yeah, yeah don't look at me like that, I promise, geez.”

 

He rubbed his eyes and scooted a little further away from the other boy. The room was getting hotter with the closed window and his tight denim jeans. It felt like he was inside a cotton ball - comfy but fucking dry. If Marco wasn't there he'd be walking butt-ass naked throughout the whole house. He had to stare at the pattern on his ceiling so he wouldn't do just that.

 

“The project.” Marco reminded them.

 

“I think,” He sighed, “I think I'll be a stripper instead.”

 

“That actually doesn't sound too bad right now.”

 

Jean turned his head to look at him, but there was just a wall of white hair looking back now, “I think there's an age requirement. Plus, I doubt they would hire an angel for a stripper. It'd be weird.”

 

“I can make it work.”

 

“I'm pulling that thing off.”

 

Marco propped himself up on his elbows, “No, you can't.”

 

“It's making your head purple. It's coming off.”

 

“No, really Jean, you can't!”

 

He ignored his shaking head as he reached out to grab hold of the cheap fibers. It remained on his skull as he pulled with one arm and then both. With the help of his legs and butt, he pressed himself against the floor and leaned back with a powerful tug, but it wouldn't budge.

 

“I told you you couldn't take it off,” He mumbled, “I tried when I went to my car and saw how my skin looked, but it’s stuck.”

 

“Why didn't you say anything? Were you planning on leaving it on forever?”

 

“No.”

 

_Sad Dalmatian puppy eyes._

 

“Fuck,” Jean looked around the room for anything that could help, and like a holy light beaming down from heaven, he caught sight of their scissors that'd been kicked under his bed, “It's coming off one way or another.”

 

He crawled on all fours to get his weapon of choice. The dull _snip snip_ noise it made when he showed Marco didn't seem to please him.

 

“Wha-What are you doing with those?”

 

He got a weird sense of deja vu as he walked on his knees towards him, “I'm only gonna cut the wig, alright? Hold still so I don't cut your hair again.”

 

“Again? When have you ever--”

 

“Not important,” He interrupted, trying not to relive an unpleasant memory, “Hold still. You know what, just close your eyes.”

 

The other boy did as he was told. His whole body froze as Jean leaned in closer, they could hear each other breathing as if they had just ran a goddamn mile. Jean locked his concentration onto his target. He was now a bomb deactivator and the wig was the enemy holding onto its frightened hostage as a last resort. One bad move would cause a massive guilt explosion that Jean knew he wouldn't be able to handle again.

 

He scanned for an area with less hair and decided his forehead was the best option. Marco's damp waves were carefully pushed to the side as his trembling hand tucked a tiny part of the silver under the faux hair. The sound of it cutting the material felt like he was opening up someone's stomach.

 

“Ok,” He held his breath as he made the incision a couple inches long, “try pulling it off.”

 

Marco quickly swung it off his head, expecting it to take a lot more force for it to unhook itself from his skull. His big eyes looked up at him with surprise as he rubbed the deep indentation it left behind as a parting gift. The relief Jean felt from seeing only a couple strands of hair falling down to his shoulder made his own relax back down. They stared into each other's bloodshot eyes, waiting for the other to say something first.

 

“I can be a stripper now.”

 

There was a moment of silence before the boys snorted out ugly laughter. The danger was gone and so was most of their sanity. The sun hurried to hide away behind the world so it wouldn't witness such disgrace and the poster on Jean's closet door tried ripping itself into shreds to put itself out of its misery.

 

“You know what,” Jean tried talking in between breaths, “that's probably what's gonna happen!”

 

Marco held out his hand to show his confusion, he was noiselessly laughing on the floor and unable to respond.

 

“We're not getting anything done! You're going to have to change your name to Dip ‘N Thots!"

 

His last sentence came out in a hurry as he took a deep breath. They were alone and in hysterics on a boring Tuesday evening.

 

“And, and,” He tried regaining some self control after remembering what Marco had called him earlier, “and I'll be Jean Fran _kirstein_ because I have a monster sized di--!”

 

He broke into another fit of roaring laughter before the foul words were ever able to finish leaving his dry mouth. Everything was hilarious and it was making their stomachs hurt, but it was a small price to pay for feeling like nothing made sense and finally being ok with it.

 

“Stop!” Marco begged, clutching onto his gut in a fetal position, “You're gonna make me pee on your carpet!”

 

Jean had heard Marco's laughter many times already, but this had been the first where it sounded so genuine. His eyes were crinkled in the corners like small waves and his cheeks were so pushed up by his wide smile that they looked like the freckles on them would pop off at any moment. There were shiny tears streaming down his face, making his squinty eyes shine along with it. Marco had never felt so real to him, so real and so happy that it made Jean happy. The sound of his voice made him feel like he was stepping outside a freezing classroom and being hit by the warmth of the sun.

 

It was beginning to dawn on him that after such a long time, he was finally able to be the source of that laughter. He was no longer the bully child that hid his affection behind insults and hollow threats. He was the friend who was torn between his morals and pride. Jean knew he couldn't erase the torment he had caused him in the past, but being his friend was the least he could do to start making up for it.

 

Last night he had been struck with guilt after Marco had called him a friend. It was so sudden and bizarre that he hadn't been equipped to give any type of response while he was awake. He doesn't know how to make friends and knows even less about the one's that throw themselves at that title and _mean_ it. And he knew Marco meant it.

 

“Hey, Marco?” Jean repositioned himself so they’d lay facing each other.

 

“Hi, Jean.” He said with his giggling dying down.

 

“I wanna tell you something. It's not gonna make any sense and I'm not gonna explain it either.”

 

“Ok, what's up?” He wiped a tear away, smiling like a goof at him, “You hungry already?”

 

“No, listen,” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying not to think about it too hard. Marco scooted towards him, their faces were close enough to make them look like different people and Jean was too comfortable to move away. All he could do was avoid his curious gaze before be lowly said:

 

“You don't have to take it seriously, alright? But I just… I want to… “ He inhaled, staring at the freckles on the bridge of his nose, “I'm sorry. I'm so so so sorry, Marco.”

 

Brown eyes didn't question him, they didn't even blink, “It's ok. I forgive you, Jeanbo.”

 

“... What? Don't say that. You don't even know what you're forgiving me for.”

 

“Don't have to. I know you're a sensitive person and probably over thinking whatever you're thinking about, so you are forgiven.”

 

“No. No, you don't understand… “

 

_This doesn't count. This doesn't count. I'll give you a real apology when I stop being a scaredy cat and I'm sober. I'll tell you I'm sorry and I'll explain it, ok?_

 

“I have to say sorry for a couple things, too.” Marco suddenly said.

 

“Huh?”

 

“The reason why I came high was because of the Pop-Tarts. I thought you might’ve eaten some before I got here, and since yesterday was… an adventure, I gave myself a little help just in case you were hyper again. I never actually thought we'd get high together and now it's my fault we're gonna fail.”

 

“Why'd you bring it if you didn't think we'd smoke?”

 

He smiled and shrugged his free shoulder, “I didn't think we would, but I did _hope_ it'd happen. Felt like you needed some too.”

 

“Well, I can't say I'm mad at you for bringing drugs,” He dared himself to greet Marco’s eyes with his own, only momentarily unwilling to stop looking at the pretty spots on his skin before they met, “What's… what's the other thing you gotta be sorry about?”

 

“Can't tell you yet.”

 

“What?”

 

“What?”

 

“But that's not fair.”

 

“Jean, you literally just did that to me right now, it so is fair.”

 

“But my thing is serious.”

 

“So is mine,” Marco stared back and forth at each of his amber eyes, “Here, let's make a deal. I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

 

“No, not today.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because,” He yawned, whispering with heavy eyes, “it wouldn’t count as a real apology. We're not ourselves right now.”

 

"But if I'm not Marco, then who am I?”

 

“A dope.”

 

He chuckled, “Ok, we can talk about it another day… Hey, Jean?”

 

“Mm?”

 

“'M sorry.”

 

“No.”

 

He sighed with a smile, “Ok.”

 

“Hey Marco?”

 

“You hungry yet?”

 

“No, let's take a break.”

 

\--------------------

 

~~~~~~~~~~

 

_Birthday’s were never something Jean looked forward to. It wasn't completely gloomy like how most of the older people made them out to be, but they didn't make him feel all that happy either. The good side to it was the attention he got at school. All of his friends - including some teachers and kids he didn't talk to - would wish him a happy birthday, he'd get a free pass for acting out during class and he’d get to eat his favorite foods when he got home._

 

_The bad part was that his mother would then leave him for work and there was no father to take her place. It also didn't help that it was all fake. For one day, out of the other three hundred and sixty four, people would wish you the best and hoped you lived long enough to make it to the next year. Everyone would repeat those words like an alarm being set off, reminding him of how you were supposed to say you're ok when people ask how you've been. It was just common courtesy and he didn't like it._

 

_Sometimes he'd overthink himself into anger and tell his mother he didn't want another stupid birthday party, but then he'd remember about the gifts his friend's families would give him and change his mind._

 

_Celebrating his birthday was one thing, but celebrating his friend's was another. Now that they were older, some of their parents allowed them to have supervised parties for at least an hour. Not only did that mean his classmates would see how cool he was outside of school, but it also meant the leftover cake would be given to the best friends when it was over._

 

_And that's exactly what the sneaky boys were doing now._

 

_Connie's house was empty of the twenty or so kids that had been there only an hour before. The Happy Birthday balloons that had been taped to the wall were now on the floor - some popped, others with silly faces drawn on them and the rest at the homes of a few of the people that had been there. Jean could hear his friend's mother singing to an Elvis Presley song in the kitchen as the remaining kids hustled into Connie's room with plates of cake in their hands._

 

_Daz was the last to enter and was given the job to shut the door behind him, spilling a bit of his orange coke on his button up shirt in the process. The boys laughed at him while they sat around in a circle, getting comfortable before talking about important matters._

 

_“Mrs. Brzenska’s boobs are getting bigger.” Thomas said as Daz sat beside him._

 

_“Eh, where did that come from?” Armin asked._

 

_“These cherries kinda reminded me.”_

 

_Connie gagged, “Don't get perverted over my birthday cake, please.”_

 

_His big hair moved with all of his little gestures. Jean remembered seeing Connie around the halls of their elementary school days, but they never had any classes. It wasn't until this school year that the two finally got a class together. He hadn't really liked him that much in the beginning because he was loud and careless, but all of his friends seemed to liked him so he just kinda grew onto him._

 

_He didn't know the nutcase known as Sasha he had befriended in art class was the infamous best friend until days after the two boys got to talking regularly. That would be the first time Jean felt the town too small._

 

_Eren looked up, “Hey, isn't Mrs. Brzenska pregnant? Thomas that's kinda gross.”_

 

_“What? No, she's not pregnant.”_

 

_Armin stared at him with pity, “Actually, she's already in her third trimester.”_

 

_“Wait,” Daz burped, “I thought we were talking about boobs not bikes?”_

 

_“N-No, third trimester means… never mind. She's just six months pregnant.”_

 

_“That doesn't make any sense,” Thomas slumped, “wasn't she pregnant on the first day of school? How long does it take for a kid to be ready?”_

 

_“What doesn't make sense is how you didn’t notice her big ass stomach. And I think you're thinking of Mrs. Dreyse.” Jean said with a mouth full of cake_

 

_Daz sighed, “Ah, Mrs. Dreyse. Her boobs are more like melons ‘cause she's got lots of kids. Not tiny cherries.”_

 

_”Whatever,” Thomas rolled his eyes, feeling heartbroken and betrayed, and asked Connie, “So how's it feel being twelve now?”._

 

_”Like when you grow a centimeter. Exactly the same.”_

 

_”Some of us wouldn't know how that feels either.” Jean snickered, looking at two of his friends._

 

_Eren glared at him, “Leave me and Armin out of this, pony, unless you want cake all over your ugly face.”_

 

_”Don't fight, guys. My mom doesn't let me bring people in my room and if you get it dirty she won't let Sash stay over either.”_

 

_”So what's the deal with her?” Daz asked as he picked off the frosting on his cake, “Is she your girlfriend or something?”_

 

_”Ew, no. Our parents are best friends so they forced us to be best friends way before we could even talk.”_

 

_”So if I asked her out, you'd be cool with it?”_

 

_Thomas chuckled, “You don't even know how to talk to girl teachers.”_

 

_Connie nodded, “Yeah, besides I don't think she even knows who you are.”_

 

_”What? But we have like five classes together.”_

 

_“Ha! Well that makes sense! Sasha only cares about food. Especially chocolate sometimes.”_

 

_”Oh yeah, I was kinda wondering, why isn't she here?” Armin asked._

 

_”I dunno. Something about her punctuation or something. She probably forgot to do her homework again,” He shook his head, “but anyways, did you guys see Mina?”_

 

_”Mina Carolina from South Carolina?”_

 

_”She's from South Carolina?”_

 

_”I dunno, it was just a joke.” Daz mumbled._

 

_“Whatta lame joke.”_

 

_”Shut up, Thomas!”_

 

_Eren rolled his eyes, “What about her, Connie?”_

 

_”Nothing. Just that her boobs looked bigger too.”_

 

_”Gross, are we still talking about boobs? Wait, hey, Armin, isn't that Marco's cousin?”_

 

_”Yeah, I think so.”_

 

_Jean's stomach flopped with the mention of his name. A year was about to pass since the cafeteria incident and he was still name calling the other boy. Even his friends had caught on and were questioning him about it. He couldn't tell them it was because he thought Marco was the cutest boy in town or that the only way he could hide his feelings was by being mean._

 

_Nowadays he's grown tired of pretending to be like them. He’d get the urge to spill the beans about liking boys, but then there were other days where he'd feel sick to his stomach about himself and keep his mouth shut. He'd lash out in frustration whenever his friends would have these types of conversations - girls and their changing bodies - and he'd hope that the last weeks of sixth grade would fly so he'd be more mature and have some sort of control of his emotions. Or at least have Mikasa stop going to softball practice so she could be around to shut them up._

 

_”Marco? Marco who?” Connie asked, swallowing cake._

 

_”Marco Bott. He moved here last year. Has lots of freckles and mows lawns for seven bucks.”_

 

_”Oh yeah, I remember! He and Sash are friends. Is he cool?”_

 

_”Yeah,” Armin said, playing with a piece of fruit from the filling, “You should talk to him, too. He's really nice.”_

 

_”Alright. I can't believe he's related to Mina. They don't look anything alike.”_

 

_“Neither do me and Armin.” Eren said._

 

_“You guys aren't related. Are you?_

 

_”Yeah, we're twins! Aren't we, Armin?” Eren joked, squeezing his friend in a tight hug that almost knocked their drinks over._

 

_”You guys are so gay.” Daz laughed._

 

_Jean choked on his soda, some of it fizzing out of his flaring nostrils as most of the boys laughed at the tasteless joke. He really hated it when they said things like that. It was like a punch to the face and it never ceased to hurt his feelings. Out of all the words in the world, why did they have to use that one for a joke?_

 

_And out of all the people in the room, why'd this asshole have to be the one to say it? He'd probably let it slide if it were one of the others, but not him. Not the guy who tried to threaten him months ago about ‘his boy’. Whatever that meant._

 

_His jealousy really wanted to know what that meant._

 

_“Daz, you're so fucking stupid.” Jean said, glaring at him as he sipped on his soda can again._

 

_His face twisted with surprise, feeling the strain of their friendship deepening, “Shut up, Jean.”_

 

_“I'll shut up when you quit being a moron.”_

 

_“I-I’ll quit being a moron when you quit being an ass.”_

 

_Thomas giggled until he realized how serious they were being. Jean could feel their eyes on him, but he was too busy trying to keep his anger locked up to care._

 

_It was hard dealing with the scaredy cat kid Marco - for some reason - liked hanging out with the most. Daz was scrawny and pale and his hair was such a dirty blond that it looked gray. It was never combed and sometimes it looked like he had never seen a bathtub. He hated Daz and all of his horrible jokes._

 

_Connie gently elbowed him on the side, “C’mon man, you're starting to scare him with that look.”_

 

_“Well, I just think it's funny that he called me an ass when shit’s the only thing that comes out of him.”_

 

_“Why are you so mad?” Daz asked, worry lines popped around his mouth._

 

_“Every time I get mad, my mom says it's because of hormones.” Eren said, trying to change the subject._

 

_“W-What’s a whore’s moans got anything to do with it?”_

 

_“No, Daz. Hormones, not… whore moans.” Armin blushed._

 

_”Yeah, that's what I said. Whore moans.”_

 

_Thomas playfully punched his bony shoulder, “Get your mind out of the gutter.”_

 

_”Me? But I’m being serious. And weren't you the one who thought of boobs from those cherries?”_

 

_”It's not my fault that's what they look like.”_

 

_Connie laughed, “What kind of boobs have you been looking at? I've never seen any with nipples as long as cherry stems.”_

 

_The boys laughed, quickly forgetting why the mood had been sour, but Jean didn't feel like finishing his cake anymore. He could tell their conversation was heading towards girls again and didn't want to put up with it._

 

_He stood up to leave, but not before seeing Armin worryingly stare at Eren._

 

_“I'm leaving, Con. I'll see you in school.”_

 

_“Already?”_

 

_”Yeah, I think my babysitter is probably freaking out again.”_

 

_”Well, alright. See ya.”_

 

_They bumped fists before he quickly exited the room, hoping Connie wouldn't notice how he left his trash so he wouldn't have to say bye to his mom in the kitchen. Being alone with parents was always scary and best when the situation could be avoided._

 

_When he made it outside he could hear Eren and Armin's hushed voices coming from behind. They didn't say anything when they reached him, only picking up their bikes from Sasha's empty driveway without actually getting on. Jean could feel all the questions the two wanted to ask. After all this time of hiding, had he finally let it show too much?_

 

_It would've been a better idea to snap after Daz said a couple more idiotic things. Then maybe he wouldn't feel so anxious._

 

_He swallowed the growing lump in his throat as they began walking down the street. Even if his anger did give away his secret, a small part if his heart would be glad. He'd never share personal things with Thomas or Daz, but things were different with the rest. They were closer._

 

_“Hey, Jean. Can I ask you something?” Eren asked after a while._

 

_He was thankful they were walking in a single file line and that he was in the front so they wouldn't see his face._

 

_“You just did.”_

 

_“I'm being serious assho--I'm being serious, man.”_

 

_He sighed, “What do you want?”_

 

_“I was just wondering, about what Daz said back there, when you got mad… why did you get mad?”_

 

_Jean sped up his pace, “Because he sucks at making jokes.”_

 

_“Well yeah, but--”_

 

_“Eren.” Armin cautioned._

 

_He couldn't see them, but he knew they were having a wordless conversation. There was a long pause before he spoke again._

 

_“It's just,” Eren continued, “you've been acting funny lately whenever we talk about certain things. I just wanna know if you're, you know… gay, or s-something.”_

 

_His heart dropped down to his stomach and his face heated up. He was afraid and embarassed, but he managed to muster up all his confidence so he could turn to see their expressions. Eren was looking at him with curiousnesss and fiddling with the rubber on his handlebars while Armin just gave him a small, encouraging smile. It was no surprise that he had already figured it out._

 

_Jean gave them a ‘so what if I am’ shrug as if it wasn’t a big deal to him and turned back around, “You guys gonna stop being my friends now or what?”_

 

_The breath after his sentence and the start of Armin's was less than a second but it still terrified him. Everything can change in one second and he knew it really was about to whether they accepted him or not._

 

_“Of course we’ll still be friends!”_

 

_“We're not stupid enough to stop talking to you just because of that.”_

 

_Armin laughed, “Now you don't have to be so worried, Eren.”_

 

 _“Excuse me,” Jean asked with irritation, “but what the hell does_ he _have to worry about?!”_

 

_“Go on, tell him.”_

 

_He stopped walking to face them, “Tell me what?”_

 

_Eren avoided their gaze and fake coughed into his balled up hand. His teeth roughly grinded together as he furrowed his brows. It was the tell-tale sign that he had been keeping a secret._

 

_”Wait, don't tell me you're--”_

 

_“I don't know yet!” Eren frowned, “It's confusing, ok? Sometimes I really like girls, but then other times... ”_

 

_“No way, I don't believe it. When did you--how long have you--,” His head couldn’t keep up with his feelings, “Hey, wait. Armin, you knew?”_

 

_He smiled, “Yeah, he told me and Mikasa a while ago. He had been nervous, too.”_

 

_”I wasn't nervous. I was just waiting for the right time to tell this loser.”_

 

_”This counts as the right time? How was this the right time? I was pissed off at Daz for making a gay joke, one that you laughed at, by the way.”_

 

_”Yeah, and that's how I've managed to keep it such a good secret. You, on the other hand, are as obvious as a tourist in town.”_

 

_“Obvious? What do you mean?”_

 

_They started walking again, this time next to one another. Jean's legs still felt like tree twigs, but he knew most of the danger was now gone and allowed himself to relax._

 

_“Is that a real question? Jean, everyone kinda already thinks you’re gay. I only asked because I wasn't a hundred percent sure. Maybe like only ninety-seven percent sure.”_

 

_“What? But I haven't said anything revealing. And what do you mean by everyone!?”_

 

_“Hm, let's see what gave Jeanbo away. Oh yeah, you're obsessed with that guy from your favorite boy band, you get bored talking about girls, you still color your hair, you still haven't had a girlfriend, and did I mention how you never shut up about that guy from that boy band?”_

 

_”Hey, I'm not the only one who’s never had girlfriend!”_

 

_Jean wanted to fight him about the stereotypes he was spitting out, but the great relief he felt from not having to keep things away from them anymore filled up his lungs. He had someone who shared his interest, but best of all, he had been accepted by his friends._

_He let out a loud laugh, surprising the two other boys before they joined him._

 

_“Hey, what about you Armin? Are you gay too, ‘cause right now’s the perfect time to share if you are.”_

 

_“I don't think so, Jean. But to be fair, I think it's still too early for me to know. I don't care much for girls or boys. I just want to grow a little more and read Ms. Langnar’s reading list over the summer.”_

 

_“He wants a book for a girlfriend.” Eren grumbled._

 

_They teased their blond friend about having babies with a dictionary as they climbed on their bikes. If they wanted to make it home in three hours rather than five, they had to get to peddling. They didn't really mind the long distance, though, because the sun was bright and warm against their skin and the air that ruffled their loose clothes felt like a soothing wave._

 

_Words couldn't describe how happy Jean was now that a couple of his favorite people knew what he had feared the most. He was confident that Mikasa would accept him just as easily as she most definitely did with Eren, and he wasn't worried about Connie or Sasha, either. He could now care less about the rest of the school would think._

 

_But there were still a few people he didn't want knowing, his mother being the main one. He still didn't feel brave enough to tell her because she was the most important and telling her would have to be planned and thought out._

 

_If only plans ever worked out like how we wanted them to._

 

~~~~~~~~~~

 

Jean's eyes tried fluttering open, but the crust gluing them together caused him pain. He groaned, feeling sticky with sweat and caged within his pants as he rolled over to the side. The thin blanket tangled around his legs further entrapped him while he struggled to find a comfortable position to lay in.

 

His brain was trying to figure out why he had just had that dream and somewhere deep inside he felt like maybe he deserved it. He was glad it had been a good memory this time, rather than his usual cringe worthy ones. Maybe now that he had accepted Marco as a friend, he wouldn't have anymore guilt ridden dreams or flashbacks. It was a big maybe that held a lot of hope.

 

With closed eyes his hands searched for a pillow to give his head a layer off of the rough carpet floor, but instead of finding soft cotton, he felt something… different. It was soft, yet very firm and it was warm. It was thick like a sturdy log and it was moving.

 

 _Moving? Did_ mémé _send a dog for Christmas?_

 

He continued to play with the squishy thing, trying to figure out what it was before it started scooting away.

 

“J-Jean. Are you awake?”

 

Like a splash of cold water to the face, the sound of Marco's voice instantly woke him up as his curious finger tips froze underneath the radiating warmth. His sealed eyes popped open, hurting him and probably plucking a couple eyelashes out. He had completely forgotten about Marco or even what year they were in. The last drops of confusion left his sore body as he stared at the thigh he had been gripping seconds ago.

 

“We’ve still got a couple more hours to go before school starts. You can go back to sleep if you want.” Marco kindly said. His voice was rough and scratchy.

 

Jean took a moment to take in his surroundings. The main light in his room was off, but the soft glow from the cheap lamp in the corner of his room illuminated the place enough for him to see Marco cross legged next to him, scribbling on a thick packet against his other leg. He wasn't wearing pajamas or the clothes from earlier, he was dressed in black jeans and the flowy pirate shirt they were using for the play.

 

“Why are wearing that?” Jean asked, rubbing the pain away from his eyes, “You look like shit.”

 

“Well, the project--”

 

“Oh fuck. The project!”

 

He stood up, almost falling over with the blood rushing back to his limbs and panicked. His room was broom-free. Not only that, but it looked cleaner than what he had remembered it. The art supplies were gone, the bag of costumes were gone and even the dirty clothes he hadn't bothered putting away so Marco wouldn't think he cared about how he presented himself were gone. He was relieved not to have woken up to the townspeople glaring at him, but this was making him freak out just as much.

 

“Marco. I think someone jacked us.”

 

“What?”

 

“Our townspeople. They're gone!”

 

“Oh that,” He weakly yawned, “No, I put ‘em in my trunk already. I finished everything.”

 

Jean felt the familiar throbbing of a cursed headache forming at his temple, “Tell me you're joking.”

 

“Nope. It went surprisingly quicker than when we do it together. I was done in just a couple hours.”

 

“Gah! Why didn't you wake me up?”

 

“Well, I did try but you were _gone_ , Jean.” He patted the floor for him to sit back down, his half-lidded eyes looked ready to close at any second now, “Don't worry. Our work was split in the middle. You basically did most of the summaries while I just finished up the props, so it's not like I did more than you if that's what you're freaking out about.”

 

“I'm not freaking out. I'm just mad that… ” Jean frowned his way down, looking at the blanket they had used for a fort the other day.

 

_Did he cover me? This is so embarrassing._

 

“Don't be mad about the project, it’s no big deal. You should be mad at me, though. I ate most of your mother's soup to help me get through my homework. Would you let me buy you something on the way to school?”

 

Jean ignored his question, “How long you been up?”

 

He stopped writing and said, “Since twelve.”

 

“Quit killing your brain and get some sleep. Two hours is better than nothing.”

 

Without receiving an answer, Jean laid back down on the itchy carpet. He felt like slop for ignoring his gut about smoking so much. The only other time he had been high enough to the point where he passed out was when the other's hotboxed Sasha’s bug after Marco quit his second job. Even if the work had been split fairly between the two, he still felt shitty for allowing the other to pull an all-nighter. If he hadn't been doped up, he would've offered to help with his homework. That is, if he was smart enough to understand it.

 

He looked over at Marco, who was putting his work away, and felt himself relax. There would be plenty of making up to do later, but right now he really wanted them both to get more sleep.

 

He searched for his phone, feeling uncomfortable without it, and found it against the wall. The light blinded him as he focused his sight on the screen, cocking his head to the side at the perplexing time.

 

_Seven o'clock? That can't be right. Marco said we had a couple more hours before school started._

 

The singing of the morning birds outside his window gave him a big fat _”nope”_ and the blue sunrise peeking from under his curtains that were as clear as the heavy duty bags under Marco's lids second it. Jean felt the blood rush out of his face at the trouble the two might be in.

 

“H-Hey, Marco, when was the last time you checked the time?”

 

“Mmm… I'm not sure, why?”

 

“Fucking fuck!”

 

For the second time in less than five minutes, Jean dizzyingly shot up from the floor and ran to his closet. He grabbed the first shirt he touched and threw it over his shoulder, the panic in his wobbly legs wouldn't subside as he looked back at a spaced out Marco. Everything would all be for nothing if they didn't make it in time for second period. Their half assed work, procrastination, and complaining would all be for nothing if they went back to sleep. And as much as Jean wanted to do that, his mind was against it.

 

It was the first time in a long time that Jean really cared about turning in a project and the first he cared about getting a grade other than a C. He wasn't about to let the chance of a better one slip by so easily.

 

“Shit, Marco, get your freckled ass up! We've got to go! Second period starts in fifteen minutes!”

 

He slowly blinked, “I think you're still half asleep, Jean.”

 

“No, that would be _you_ ,” He marched over to the sleepy boy and yanked him up by the arms, “Alright, you have everything we need in your car, right? Just meet me down there. I'll be done changing in a sec. C'mon man, stay with me. Wake up!”

 

“Are… are you sure its seven? I mean, the time on my phone says…” He lazily pulled out his device from his pocket and turned it on. His red eyes bugged out in horror, ” _Santa Madre di dio!_ ”

 

”I don't know what that means, but good, you're awake!”

 

While he struggled to remove his warm shirt, Marco fumbled on the floor searching for his missing socks and gathering his remaining possessions to shove in his duffle bag. Jean could feel his heartbeat hammering in his ears as he slipped on his shirt and then quickly yanked his weightless book bag from the bottom bunk.

 

He waited for Marco to get his shit together before they ran down the stairs by two's. Jean instantly regretted not taking the time to put on some socks when he slipped his dry feet in his cold shoes. He felt even worse when they stepped outside. All he was wearing was a plain t, dirty jeans, and sockless vans in a forty degree weather.

 

“Stupid, fucking weather.”

 

The door went unlocked as he jogged over to his car, but before he could even make it to the driver's side, he heard the sound of skin slap against the concrete driveway. Marco was face down on the ground when he turned around.

 

“Marco, what the hell?” He ran over to help the clumsy nerd up.

 

His nose was pink with tiny scratches as he tried balancing himself, “Sorry, I'm ok. Just a little woozy.”

 

“Gimme your keys, we're riding together.”

 

“But how’ll you get back home after school?” He asked, handing him the keys either way.

 

“You?”

 

“Actually, today's my first day at my new job. Gotta go right after the bell rings.”

 

_”He tends to overwork himself - especially during the end of the year. He fainted once from over exhaustion… “_

 

Ms. Camilla’s voice rang inside Jean’s throbbing skull and he got the urge to smack her son on the back of his head. Instead, he grabbed him by the wrist and unlocked the Tahoe. He stuffed Marco inside and slammed his door shut before running to get inside the driver's seat.

 

“Out of all the irresponsible things you could've done,” Jean snarled as he backed out of his house, “pulling an all nighter before the first day of work is one of the worst!”

 

The machine was bigger and wider than his little Jetta and it messed with his perspective on how close to the other side of the road he was on. His mind was racing faster than the speed limit on an empty highway.

 

“Jean, you're driving too close to--”

 

“You know, sleep is important! Way more important than homework, so you better sleep or else your mom will start worrying about you!”

 

“O-Okay, I understand, but listen. I think you're gonna--”

 

“I'm not listening until you swear you'll go home after second period!”

 

Marco struggled to put on his seatbelt, “Ok, I swear, but seriously I think you're gonna hit that car.”

 

He kept his focus on the nearing exit of the neighborhood, “No I'm not.”

 

“Jean, I really think... Jean you're gonna hit the car!” Marco grabbed the wheel and rolled it to the right.

 

“Hey! We were fine! Even if I _did_ hit it, they wouldn't've known who it was! People who park their cars on the side of the street are used to that sorta thing happening anyway!”

 

Marco laughed, “What was is it you were saying about irresponsibility?”

 

“Shut it, Bott.”

 

His voice grew serious again, “Jean, slow down, there's a stop sign.”

 

“No cop, no stop!”

 

He took a sharp left out of the houses and onto the road. The busy, busy road. There were middle school buses driving by like slow whales. Other cars coming from or going to work were like schools of fish trying to avoid the giants. And then there was Jean, driving like he and Marco were snakes in a river, slithering their way through the cars and getting honked at. Witnesses would've said they were more like crooks with the cops hot on their tails.

 

Except there were no cops. There was only the clock counting down to their last minutes. More than once did Marco have to steer the wheel in a safer direction, he had given up trying to strap himself down. It wouldn't have mattered anyways because the only way he could manage to not bash his head against the window or dashboard from Jean's harsh breaks was by putting his arms and legs in different angles.

 

When they reached a long traffic line near their school, Jean could hear a sigh of relief coming from his side. His angry eyes dashed at the stereo. They had five minutes before second period started. He scanned the street for a space to squeeze into and found one.

 

“Are there any pedestrians on the sidewalk?”

 

Marco's messy head looked out the window, “No, I don't see... Jean Kirstein, what on earth are you thinking?”

 

_You stayed up all night working on the goddamn project. We're not about to get a zero for it!_

 

He gripped the steering wheel, “Shortcut.”

 

“No, please don’t d-- _oh_!”

 

The bump that he drove over to get on the beige sidewalk was higher than he had anticipated, but that didn't lower his determination. He bit down on his lip, edging his chest closer to the wheel as he drove on a traffic free area. Beside him, he could hear Marco groaning in bewilderment.

 

“Jeeean! We’re going to get in so much trouble!”

 

He couldn't do anything but grin, “We're fine! We're fine! Here, look I’ll put the windows down! You like that, don't you?”

 

The cold air came rushing like a broken water dam. It made him gasp, but through his peripherals he could see Marco loosen up his grip on the arm rest. He didn't mind that the wind was ruining their hair even further. 

 

“What if a cop sees us?!” Marco yelled with a hint of a smile that didn't care anymore.

 

Jean laughed, “The day a cop does his job around here is the day the world is going to get eaten by giant monsters!”

 

The idle cars beside them stared in shocked silence as the screeching teenage boys drove twelve miles per hour until they disappeared around the corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first, happy new year! I hope you're all doing well and haven't broken your new years resolution if you've made any.
> 
> second! My. Soul. Is. Broken. The recent snk update kicked my ass and I'm still recovering,. lmao. I think all the Marco Bott (Bodt, Butt) fans need a really big hug.
> 
> p.s. don't smoke kids
> 
> p.p.s. i hope i fooled some of you in the beginning of the chapter muahaha


	12. Penumbra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People--like the moon--have many different faces. Some days you're full and bright and others you've got a great big shadow casting over you and you feel like you're not fully there. Either way, keep in mind that there'll be people who'll look at you and still appreciate what they see.

The screeching of a chair being dragged across the floor caught the attention of the only two other customers that were in the coffee shop. Marco could hear the man grunt an apology before taking his seat with a heavy sigh. His entrance had let in cold air from the darkness outside, fogging up the windows even further.

 

It had been a week already since he started working there and he had been pleasantly surprised by how different it had become - which wasn't really that much - but it was enough for him to catch it. It still had its chipped paint, torn booths and lack of workers, but the floors weren't sticky with grease anymore and the smells coming from the kitchen were mouth watering rather than sickly sweet.

 

“Good evening, Dita, you sure you want to look over the menu or would you like your regular?”

 

He could hear the waitress asking from behind as he wiped down a table near the entrance. The woman who had been there the morning he went looking for work was gone. She had been replaced by a pretty lady with short blonde hair that had kindly asked him to call her Nanaba instead of Ma’am.

 

“Hmm,” The man pretended to think about it, “I guess you can tell Mike that the regular will do, but next time I'll order something different for sure.”

 

“For sure,” She agreed, a smile playing in her words.

 

Marco chuckled to himself as he moved on to a booth. Since the first day he started working there, Dr. Ness had been saying the same thing - as well as some other the other regulars. The only one's who ever seemed to order something different were the passer by’s.

 

“I need a coffee - black, double crust veggie pot pie, a small side of grits and peach jelly with a butter biscuit for the vet!” Nanaba yelled to Mike through the kitchen window.

 

He could hear him grunt at the request as he used a wet rag to clear up some of the fog on the window. When he had been assigned to clean the glass days ago, he had noticed that the scratches weren't just randomly placed there by old age. They were actually a bunch of initials with a bunch of badly drawn hearts overlapping one another. Nanaba said the owner had actually encouraged the vandalism, it was better than carving on the wooden tables since food would probably just get trapped in there.

 

It was a cheesy thing, but he liked it. Just like how he liked his job. Some days he'd stand throughout his whole shift behind an already clean counter, pretending to wipe it down when a new hungry customer came in and up until they paid and left. Other days he'd be on cleaning duty, sweeping, mopping, freshening up the restrooms, or helping Mike clean the kitchen while he cooked.

 

When the day was hectic, he'd have to do all of those things at the same time. Luckily, it'd only happen twice so far. But when the day was especially slow, and there was nothing left to do, they'd allow him to silently work on his homework in one of the booths, giving him free coffee for motivation.

 

Marco quickly figured out that they didn't need him. Although the place did get packed every once in awhile, he knew it wasn't something they couldn't handle on their own. His suspicions had been proven right when the owner, Mr. Jeremiah Zacharius - who was the the father of the cook - had decided to drop by one day. He had apologized to him for the way the little shop's sanitary conditions was before. His daughter had been in charge while Nanaba (and Mike) were on paternal leave, thanking him for taking on such a dull job and leaving him speechless at the information about his two quiet coworkers.

 

He was the backup, just in case the babysitter at home called them for an emergency that involved their child. Or at least that's what he had understood from their talk, but in the end, it was alright with him. He was just happy to be employed again.

 

After that, Marco had seen the old man come in sometimes after his shift was over. Mr. Zacharius liked working at night better because it was the time they had the perfect amount of customers. Most were truck drivers or single adults who didn't feel like cooking at home, but they occasionally had insomniac’s and drunken teenagers make their way in. Even some families that were just passing by and moving on to a better place came and refueled their bodies before going back on the road.

 

He wasn't allowed to work the night shift, for obvious reasons, but he didn't really mind because during the daytime hours, he'd see people he _did_ know.

 

Hannah and Franz from school had came for a brunch date last Saturday, turning red as tomatoes when they saw his familiar face, but then later forgetting he was even there after they got their food. They only ever had eyes for each other and would probably grow up to have six kids, three dogs and end up moving further into the country so they'd have more space to move around.

 

Another friend of his, Mylius, had came in with his family. He had an older brother who looked just like him and a younger sister who didn't, but when she smiled her crooked smile, the whole family smiled with her and they'd all look alike. They were nice people that had left him a good tip and Marco had felt sad that Mylius had dropped out of school to work full time.

 

Even Daz showed up the other day, looking like his usual nervous self when he entered the store. His eyes were glued to his flip phone the entire time until Marco came up to him and tried his best to sound like a cop. The color on his face drained, then turned back to its normal green color when he saw his friend. They spoke for a few minutes before a sketchy man took his seat across from Daz. Marco decided to keep it professional after that.

 

One person he hadn't expected to see was his fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Ral. Her long red hair had been cut above her shoulders, making her look like the mother she had become. She was married to an older looking man, who kept glaring at him as if he were about to steal his wife, but looked harmless. She had excitedly introduced Marco to her two children, a ten year old sweet boy and a one year old energetic girl. They caught up briefly because her baby bit herself with the few teeth she had and started crying.

 

Marco swore he saw a proud look on the father's face as he walked away from their table.

 

All the people that came in the warm shop left their stress out on the street. His boss was right, it was a dull job, but when he stopped and looked at the way it created peace around its customers, he couldn't find it in him to complain. It was like a small piece of heaven for all of the hungry or tired hearts that needed temporary escape from the outside world. And even if he hadn't been working there for too long, he could easily tell that they all appreciated the atmosphere Mike, Nanaba and the owner had created. And he was proud to be part of that heaven.

 

Marco checked the time on the wall, snapping out of his mushy thoughts, picked up his rags and bucket and hurried to the back. Mike was eating one of his Rueben sandwiches, already long finished with Ness’s order, tsking at him as he opened up the exit from the far right of the kitchen. Cold air stung his sweaty face as he threw the dirty water out, twisting the towels dry before coming back.

 

“It's about to be ten,” Mike mumbled with a stuffed mouth. His voices always reminded him of an old Clint Eastwood film.

 

He threw the rags in a different bucket that had the words _dirty_ taped on it then hurried to clock out, “I know, I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”

 

“Get any homework done?”

 

_His dad-ness is showing_

 

“No, not today,” He yanked his jacket from their homemade hangers, which was really just nails badly hammered into the wall, “I'll do it when I get home. It's still pretty early.”

 

Mike huffed, disagreeing with his statement, “Alright, get home safe.”

 

“Yes, sir,” He gave him a small wave, “thank you, goodnight!”

 

Marco shuffled out of the kitchen, zipping up his jacket as he passed Nanaba by. He didn't want to disturb her as she spoke and poured coffee into another customer's mug, but a gentle hand brushed his shoulder to let him know he did a good job today. He shyly smiled at her before getting hit by the cold air again.

 

She and Mike knew how to keep to themselves, and he never would've guessed they were married with a child if he hadn't noticed the rings or informed by the old man, but he rather much enjoyed that. It was a nice change of pace from the other jobs he'd had.

 

“Goin’ home already?” He heard a deep, rugged voice ask.

 

Marco looked up and found his white haired boss towering over him. He didn't think he'd ever be used to his or his son’s height, “Yes, sir, I actually went over the clock today.”

 

Mr. Zacharius let out a hearty laugh, his great white mustache grew larger when he gawfed like that, “Oh, then that must mean I'm late! Y’know, if you ever want more time, you can always talk to Mike or Nana about it.”

 

“Nana?”

 

“Yeah, I may own the place, but they're much more organized than I am.”

 

When Marco figured out he wasn't talking about his grandma, he swallowed and hoped he didn't sound too pushy when he asked, “Do you think the offer will stand once it's summer?”

 

“‘Course! Especially for summer. That's when all you kids get out of school and loiter around. We can talk about it another time,” He said, rubbing his skinny hands together, “my bones are startin’ to ache.”

 

“Oh! I am so sorry--”

 

“I'm just messin’ with ya,” He laughed again, patting Marco on the back as he opened the front door, “get ‘ome safe!”

 

“Th-Thank you, you too!”

 

The man boomed with laughter again before he disappeared. He didn't understand why until he realized he just told him to get home safe as well. Mr. Zacharius was scary for reasons that didn't involve his height or boss status, but he couldn't quite figure out why.

 

_Maybe I'll be able to work here until I figure out what I want to do with my life._

 

The first thing Marco did when he hopped in his Tahoe was take his phone out from the safety of under his seat. It instantly started vibrating when he brought it back to life, already knowing most would probably be messages from his mother.

 

**From: Ma**  
\--Micah wanted pizza today. Hurry home if you don't want him to finish it ok?  
\--Mi dispiace. We had to order another box, he ate everything. 

 

_That was over an hour ago. I hope there's still some left._

 

**From: Con-ye South**  
\--Dude, I'm freaking otu!! sAsh, she texted me. She wants to TALK  
\--Like, after the play. do you knkw how many times we're gonna play the play the lpaly?!??!  
\--Did she mean THIS saturday or NEXT saturday? I dont know man! But what if she knows?!  
\--Wat if she smelled my love for her??? Oh my god it probably smells like french fries. NO WONDER SHE CAUGHT ON 

**\--Hey man, sorry for freaking out like that on you. Im cool now lol but on a totally different note, I'm at your place now so hurry up.  
\--ooooo I see you have some pizza**

 

_Oh no_

 

**From: Ma**  
\--Hey, its Micah. Your short freind is getting grilled by mom. he ate all of your food and now she's makeing him help her cook you something. and if he says i assissted in the eating don't believe him  
\--hope your in the mood for mac n cheese  
\--where are you, it's passed 9:30 alread 

 

_Oh boy_

 

He turned his car on, feeling hesitant to face the disaster that was hopefully dying down by now when he felt another vibrate in his hand. A smile grew on his face at the name that jumped out on the screen.

 

**From: Jean**  
\--Ok ok I thought of my 10th question. If you could be anything what would you be? Bc I would've loved to be that damn pizza Connie took a Snap of!  
\--I know who's kitchen that is, Bott, so where are my leftovers?! 

 

_Maybe I should just throw a pizza party…_

 

**To: Jean**  
\--To be fair, I'm not getting any of it either… and if I could be anything, I'd be on my way to getting my brown belt  
\--...also, does that mean you want to get eaten, Jean? :>

 

**From: Jean  
\--I'm counting that as your 10th question!**

 

Marco giggled, deciding that was probably enough harmful joking for the night, and tucked his phone in his jacket before finally driving out. Somehow he had convinced Jean into resuming their game of twenty-one questions days ago, and even if their questions or answers weren't as serious as he wanted them to be, he was happy Jean hadn't rejected the idea. It even seemed like he was interested in playing, too.

 

With a content sigh, his hand reached towards his favorite button in the car. His house was so near, he didn't have to put his windows down, but his habit was calling out to him like a siren and he wasn't strong enough to ignore its temptation. As the chilly nighttime air flooded inside, its calming effect reminded him of the events that happened last week.

 

The morning of their due project had been a ride from beginning to end. They had made it to second period three minutes late, but bless Mr. Pixies for not even asking for an excuse. He hadn't cared that they looked like a mess and were tripping over their feet just to make it to their desks - he allowed them to stay in the cluttered room that held all of the other students projects as well.

 

There had been piles of posters, cardboard coffins, plastic roses, wings made out of construction paper, toy babies, and other objects that dealt with the other stories. The boys had thought they did too much, but then felt better when they saw everyone else had done the same.

 

They had been third to be called for their presentation. It took them a few minutes to arrange the slipping broomsticks in stable positions, making the other kids snicker at their attempts, and it didn't help that Marco was still feeling disoriented and even a little nauseous from staying up all night. Everything about them looked sick and crummy.

 

The bald cap they were supposed to use had to be stuffed back into the bag containing the rest of the costumes Jean hauled with them. His wavy hair had been so messy that the weightless plastic wouldn't stay on his _big ass head_. Marco could see the worry on Jean's face deepen after that, but he shot him many reassuring smiles that only seemed to bother him further right before they began.

 

While Jean read their summaries, Marco had tried his best improvising the act even if the wardrobe was malfunctioning. He swung his long wings with as much grace as a drunkard trying to walk a straight line. His acting was spot on, but it didn't match their poor appearances and it made the class full of mixed emotions. Everything had been ok until their couple of last paragraphs.

 

The ending was supposed to be the most dramatic - the one where the old angel frees himself from the cage humans had created for him, using his new wings to fly away - but it didn't exactly go that way.

 

While he had been acting the part out, one of his wings smacked a nearby student across her face as he turned his back to the crowd, signaling that he was now a free man. The room burst out laughing, totally missing the meaning, but Jean told him to keep going. The old pair of wings finally saw its last days as he flapped and flapped and flapped. They broke in half, the metal wires scratched his skin and thin pirate shirt on its way down to the floor, revealing bits of his tattooed wings that covered most of his back.

 

“Rip it off!” Jean had harshly whispered to him while the class continued to laugh at their demise. His pink face looked angry, but it didn't reach his shiney eyes.

 

Marco would've listened to anybody with the state he was in and nodded. He removed the shirt that belonged to the drama club and shivered. He felt embarrassed showing everyone his backside, but the feeling quickly vanished. It didn't really feel like it was him doing it, his mind was dreaming about pillows and blankets that smelled sweet while Jean finished narrating. The clapping momentarily snapped him out of it.

 

They had to lie to Mr. Pixies that that had been part of their plan the whole time and that no, it wasn't improvised due to technical difficulties. Marco had to wear another costume from the bag as they took their seats so the giggling could stop. He wondered if any of them had caught sight of his brown nipples and if they thought about chocolate milk.

 

While they waited for their teacher's quick grade before the next presentation, Marco stole a glance at his desk buddy, the one who used to look so pouty when he realized they were in the same class. Jean was gawking at his exposed arms - the Danny Zucco shirt barely covering his shoulders - and at the inked feathers that were visible on his skin. He knew Jean had been too high to notice the few that had peeked out of his rolled up sleeves the day before because most of the time he forgot them, too. Wearing mostly long sleeved shirts made sure of that.

 

Jean had finally met his eyes when the teacher placed their grade facedown in between their desks. They stared at one another, afraid and slightly knowing they probably deserved to fail, but ready for the result. Jean's pale fingers slowly turned the paper over, revealing the perfect hundred to their worn out faces. It was a lucky grade for a shit play done on the spot, pity from their teacher was most likely the reason for it, but they didn't care. Both boys had sparkled with disbelief and squealed to one another.

 

_His face needs more surprises,_ Marco decided, parking in his driveway and putting his memories away for the moment.

 

Connie's Honda sat right in front of their mailbox. Its funny green color was one he'd recognize instantly - it resembled the inside of a kiwi - and the shaven head popping out of his bedroom window was like the outside of the fruit. Fuzzy and light brown.

 

He rolled up his windows, grabbed his bookbag from the passenger seat and hopped off his car. With a grin on his face he walked on his lawn to stand underneath Connie's equally silly grin. The overly dramatic and theatrical face he loved to wear was on his boyish face, letting Marco know _he_ better know what perfect positions they were in. And after knowing Connie for so long, he did.

 

“Rapunzel! Rapunzel! Let down your hair!” Marco called out to him, unable to keep a straight face like his friend.

 

“Prince Charming, Prince Charming! Is’th my armpit hair’th alright? I have’th none on my’th head right now… ‘th!”

 

“Wait, Prince Charming?”

 

“How long is your pit hair? That's so gross!” Micah shouted, his head crammed for space as he stood next to Connie.

 

“You can't say anything yet,” Marco smiled up at him, “once you hit puberty, you start feeling proud about stuff like that!”

 

Connie nuggied Micah's head, “Make sure you grow more hair than your big brother. That guy's legs are smoother than a baby’s bottom!”

 

The boys laughed as Marco happily made his way inside, already smelling the macaroni and cheese as he hurried into the kitchen and cringing at how hard he slammed the front door. His mother's soft footsteps were already coming downstairs, right on cue like every other night, until she popped up in her pajamas and loose hair. It was past her bedtime and it showed on her face.

 

“Did you get my messages?” She asked, reaching up to touch his face with the back of her hand, “Marco, you had your windows down again, didn't you? What did I tell you about pneumonia? You know your uncle passed away from that.”

 

“What uncle was it again?”

 

She waved her hand at him, “You never met him, but more importantly, are you hungry?”

 

He sighed with her common lie and nodded, “‘M starving.”

 

She took out the macaroni from the fridge, happily placing it on the counter and then showing him the ground beef on the stove. She moved with tiny steps, her gray slippers sliding across the linoleum floor. There was a dutiful aura around her that Marco grew up with, one so familiar that it made him wonder how it’d be like when they’d no longer live together.

 

“I don't know where you kids put all that food,” She said, handing her son a disposable plastic plate they kept on the counter, “You're lucky Sasha wasn't here or you wouldn't even have _that_ to eat.”

 

“Yeah, i-it’s a good thing she was busy with other stuff today.”

 

She watched him as he served himself, “Tell her and Connie to come over next time we make lentils. I know they love eating that when it's chilly out.”

 

“Ok,” He said, opening up a drawer to pull out their clear wrap. If his mom wasn’t there, he wouldn’t have had the patience, “I'll let them know, together.”

 

“It's been awhile since she's been here. Or your other girlfriends. How are they all doing?”

 

_Girlfriends._

 

“They're doing fine,” He placed his wrapped dish in the microwave, “does it get boring being the only, er, female in the house and taking care of two boys?”

 

She chuckled, “It's never boring, stinky sometimes, but never boring. Every now and then I do think about how things would've been if you had a sister, but I'm happy with my two _ragazzi_.”

 

“You know, me and Micah wouldn't mind doing feminine things with you.”

 

“Mm, I'll keep that in mind,” She yawned with a smile, not bothering to cover her mouth because she was home and there were no visitors down with them, “I need to go to bed. Don't make too much noise, ok?”

 

“Got it.”

 

She kissed him goodnight as his food popped and whirled in the microwave, giving him that stern look on her face to leave his door open until Connie left before she headed upstairs. He was glad she had stopped giving his friends that vague threat-like talk she used to when they were in middle school. Hopefully she really had only given Jean juice the day he came over and not a speech. Hopefully.

 

He quickly grabbed a fork and went upstairs after the machine dinged to a stop. Connie was laying on his bed, door already wide open, as he glared at his phone. His bald head was at the foot of his bed, and his legs were swinging back and forth - thankfully never touching his pillows.

 

“Where's Micah?” Marco asked, swinging his backpack on the floor, then plopping himself down on his beanbag chair facing Connie. He got comfortable to eat and to lend a listening ear to a friend.

 

His head snapped up and looked emotionally exhausted, “Your mom told him to go to bed. Did he get taller again? He's like my height now and that's not fair.”

 

“Yeah, he's going to be taller than me when he gets to be my age. Probably around Reiner's height.”

 

“I'd say Bertholdt but that guy's still growing… just like my pit hair.”

 

“I sure do love hearing that when I'm about to eat,” Marco joked, already shoving a fork full in his mouth and instantly burning his tongue.

 

He laughed, “Yeah, sorry about the pizza. I'll buy you your own box next time. But your brother ate, like, three! So it wasn't just _my_ gluttony's fault.”

 

“It's alright,” He said, trying not to spit out chunks of food while he talked, and gave Connie a smile, “I eat my feelings too sometimes.”

 

Connie blew air out of his cheeks and rolled out the frameless bed and onto the floor with a low thump. His face stayed hidden on the carpet while his outstretched noodle arms held onto his phone. That was the sign that feelings were about to be spilled in his small room.

 

“Look,” He slid the phone to Marco's feet.

 

He grabbed it, allowing his food to cool for a few more seconds while he read the message aloud, “‘Hello, Connie Springer. It's me, Sasha Blouse, your neighbor. I would like to make an appointment with you discussing our current situation. The one you put us in, you know the one. It is most unsatisfactory and is making my brain work overtime. We'll talk after the play. Have an exceptional rest of the day.’”

 

_Oh, she really did take my advice..._

 

His voice was muffled by the carpet he refused to turn away from, but his ears were pink, “The end is near, I can feel it! She's never been so, so _calm_ during any of our fights. It's not… normal and so un-Sasha. And I'm weak, Marco. I'm a weak, weak little man.”

 

_.... Maybe it wasn't a good idea. I should never give out advice again._

 

Marco scarfed down hot food before speaking, “I wouldn't call you weak if you've held on for this long, but if you think she's going to find out how you feel, why not just give in and confess?”

 

“I've thought about it, but I dunno,” He turned his crimson face to the side, staring at nothing while he spoke, “I'm just so scared. Everything is going to change between us whether I tell her how I feel or not.”

 

“What’ll happen if you tell her you like her?”

 

“She’ll get mad at me for not saying anything sooner. She'll yell at me for the way I've been acting - avoiding her and what not - but then she'll get over it in a second. We'll get together, be happy and then graduation will roll around and she'll stay here, wasting so many opportunities or force me to move hours and hours away from home to study something I have no passion for.”

 

“And if you don't tell her?”

 

“Oh, that's my favorite option,” He sarcastically said, eyes fixed on the stars on his ceiling now, “If I don't tell her the truth, if she puts me on the spot, she'll notice I'm lying and she'll cry. She's done it before. When we were like nine I lied and said she wasn't my best friend because I was too embarrassed to say it in front of people. She knew I didn't mean it, but she punched me and cried home anyways… I'm going to lose my best friend no matter what I do.”

 

Marco burned himself with greasy beef, “Ah, well, you're forgetting the other option.”

 

“What other option?”

 

“The one where you tell her how you feel, you get together, she goes to college and you maintain a long distance relationship. Then you get married, have kids and live happily ever after.”

 

Connie raised a depressed brow at him, “I'd entertain the thought if she went to our nearest college, which is what? Two hours away? But her parents are loaded. They'll probably ship her out of state like some sorta--sorta, I dunno, expensive package or whatever.”

 

“You never know. Not everything is set in black and white. Especially people… especially Sash. She's every color on the color wheel and more,” He shrugged, unsure of how to make a heartbroken friend better, “maybe she'll surprise you. And even if you only have a one percent chance that’ll work out, wouldn't you still want to take it?”

 

He stuffed his face with macaroni while Connie stared at him with curiousness, “Have you ever been in love, Marco?”

 

“Mm? Mm-mm.”

 

“Oh! Well that makes sense, you sound too positive about it.”

 

“Is love really all that bad?”

 

“Yes and no. I wouldn't recommend it though - hey, that rhymed! - but yeah. Love is more complicated than one of those rubix cube thingies. It's like, you get sick and stuff. Your face burns, hands get sweaty, legs get shaky, heart palpitations, upset stomach… changing your bed sheets in the middle of the night… “

 

“Ookay, I think I understand,” Marco laughed, but he continued.

 

“... but for some reason, you _like_ those feelings? I dunno. But it's worse when it's your best friend who you're in love with because who do you tell all your secrets to? Your best friend, that's who! It's a curse. You have no idea how many times I wanted to tell her, ‘hey Sash! I think I'm in love with Sash! Har, har, har! What do you think I should? Should I ask her out?’”

 

Marco kept eating, nodding every now and then to let his friend know he was listening and ok with his venting.

 

“It's just weird how I've known her all my life and instead of getting tired of her, I want more. I've seen her at her worst - and I mean worst - with all the sick days, the diarrhea minutes after eating spoiled food, when she's not her usual energetic self, her eating habits - good god, her eating habits! I've even seen her pee her pants before.”

 

“When you were small?”

 

“Nah, like a couple months ago. I saw her piss herself because she was too damn lazy to hold it in until we got home and now… now we don't even look at each other. We're like where you and Jean were before you started talking. It's so uncomfortable.”

 

“Then that just means things will get better between you two!” Marco confidently said, eating the last bit of his dinner.

 

His statement seemed to have sparked a little hope in Connie, “Hey, wait a minute, you're right! If Jean, of all people, can make things work out with someone, then maybe that one percent is a lot bigger! Maybe it's a _five_ percent since Sasha is way more understanding!”

 

“I think you should jump up a few more numbers… a lot more numbers, considering how different those two are.”

 

Connie laughed, sitting up and rubbing his cheeks, “Yeah, that's true. Hm, I feel a little better now. So how are you two doing anyways?”

 

Marco stood up, feeling icky in his work clothes now that he wasn't distracted by hunger and walked towards his closet, “We're friends. Definitely friends… I think. No, yeah, we're friends. He still makes fun of me, but it's different. It feels different.”

 

“He still calling you Freckles? I never could get over how creative he could be.”

 

Marco removed his green collared shirt, back facing Connie as he let it drop to his feet. He slid a pajama top off from a hanger and giggled, “He doesn't call me that as much anymore, and when he does his lip does a weird twitchy thing. He twitches a lot. Especially in his sleep.”

 

“Whoa! Whoa, whoa, whoa,” The shock in his voice caught enough of Marco's attention to look back at his bewildered eyes, “wait, are you two _those_ type of friends?”

 

And as if that question wasn't bad enough, he proceeded to make suggestive gestures using his fingers, taking quick glances at the opened door just in case his friend's mother would sense his dirty mind and bust them.

 

“ _What?_ Why would you ever _think_ that, Connie?” Marco could feel his face heating up and his hands instinctively hid his chest with the crumpled pj shirt.

 

Connie's face was also blushing now, “Y-You’ve got scratch marks running down your back! And you've seen him sleep? You totally said that right now, didn't you? I mean, it's cool and whatever, I just wasn't expecting it!”

 

Marco screamed inside of his head. The only reason why those stupid scratch marks were still on his skin was because of his nasty habit of picking at his scabs after the blood dried off. They hadn't even been that bad to begin with, but they had itched the night of their presentation and he had continued to scratch until they got to that point.

 

“No! We're not doing any of _that_ together,” He loudly whispered, feeling his heart pound with embarrassment, “We had a project together a-and I slept over a couple times, I stayed up all night working on homework one day and he just scared me with all the twitching, there was an accident with wings, and, and, and… the scratches aren't from J-Jean!”

 

“Ok, ok, they aren't from Jean!” He put his hands up in surrender, “I forgot you don't, uh, really date all that much, sorry.”

 

He loosened his grip on the poor shirt, “It’s alright, you just kinda caught me off guard there.”

 

“My bad. Next time I'll stretch before jumping to conclusions.”

 

Marco gave him a soft chuckle before turning back around. He began to change into the rest of the sleeping clothes that'll only end up at the foot of his bed - the adrenaline from Connie's question still circulating through his body and face. He'd laugh at their exchange if it weren't for the uneasiness crawling up his spine. If love was like a rubix cube people tried to solve, he'd rather leave it on the corner of the coffee table until he was ready to pick it up.

 

And at the moment, he wasn't ready for it. Not when he felt like he was trying to win the love from his own father. If his own flesh and blood held no interest in him, then who else out there would? He still had no interest in love, but now he didn't know if he'd welcome it as warmly as he once thought because fear kept crashing into his blind spots.

 

Marco took in a deep breath, locking up thoughts and feelings that'd bring dark clouds above his head as he threw his dirty clothes in his hamper.

 

“How's the new job?” Connie asked, happily changing the subject for the two, “Are they still being shy?”

 

“Just a little. Mike kinda sounds like a father when he talks to me. Nanaba is more talkative than him, she's really nice.”

 

“Pretty, too. Have you met the old man?” He asked, laying back down on his belly and messing around with his phone.

 

Marco grabbed his backpack from where he had left it and sat on his chair again. The surprise of how Connie knew and talked about how his coworkers were married and more was long gone, “Yeah, but I don't really get to speak with him. How do you know them so well by the way?”

 

“After me and Sash used to go - come, I mean come. After we used to come back from, uh, the park and stuff, late at night, we'd go there for a treat. When the clock hit twelve, he'd give everyone free french fries.”

 

“Sounds like a fairy tale,” Marco unzipped his bag.

 

“Felt like one too. Especially with all those lovestruck losers writing their initials on the window.”

 

“I think it's kinda cute.”

 

“My armpit hair is kinda cute.”

 

Connie stayed for another half hour, talking about how things at his parent's store was going and the kind of people they got, while Marco did his homework. But eventually his father called him, screaming through the phone if he had forgotten their was school tomorrow and to stop overstaying his welcome. Their silly back and forth banter made Marco's chest ache, but he hid it behind smiles.

 

When Connie was long gone, his teeth brushed and homework completed, he laid unable to sleep. The blankets felt too suffocating and his pillows too hot. There was no gentle breeze to soothe him, only the deafening silence filling up his square room. It was going to be one of those rare nights where his mind wouldn't stop racing around a million what if’s and impossible day dreams that involved one big happy, completed family.

 

The nearer Thanksgiving became, the more the daydreams would come. It'd always start with happy childhood memories. There had barely ever been bad ones, which made his parents divorce all that much more confusing, but then it'd end with him sneaking off into his backyard when he knew both his mother and Micah were passed out.

 

He'd smoke well past midnight, until drowsiness waved its pretty wand around his eyes. _This_ was no fairytale, the way he'd try to fight off the want, to clear his mind on his own rather than go behind his mother's back, and sometimes it'd work. Other times his own denial would amplify the need.

 

Marco shifted, rearranging one of his pillows in between his legs and almost smiled. His thoughts desperately turned to a certain boy to gain some much needed distraction. Most of his bad habits had been exposed and pointed out by Jean, even down to the way he always had to have his car windows down. That one had caught him by surprise, but he guessed after all those time he made sure to park near him in the school's parking lot that he'd notice.

 

_”I'm sorry. I'm so so so sorry, Marco.”_

 

“What’re you sorry about, Jean?” Marco asked himself, trying to love his cotton blanket again.

 

He closed his eyes, replaying last week's events in his head like he's done for the last few days. Something in his gut told him he was going to have a serious talk with Jean sooner than he wanted. Putting Connie's situation in perspective made his seem easier to confront, and not only that, but he was curious as to what Jean wanted to apologize for. Curious and worried.

 

No matter how hard he had tried thinking about it, he was only greeted by blankness. And if anyone had anything to apologize for, it was himself. Or at least that's what he had thought. Now he didn't know. He felt like he didn't know much of anything anymore.

 

_Buzz, buzz, buzz!_

 

Marco jumped, startled by his phone buzzing on his naked torso. The time said twelve-fifteen and the name of the messenger said Jean.

 

**From: Jean  
\--Question 11. What's your favorite movie?**

 

**To: Jean  
\--why are you awake?**

 

**From: Jean  
\--Whoops, thought you were asleep**

 

**To: Jean  
\--it's ok, but really, why are you awake?**

 

**From: Jean  
\--Answer my question first.**

 

Marco sighed, already picturing his stubborn scowl in his head.

 

**To: Jean  
\--i don't have a favorite movie**

 

**From: Jean**  
\--What?  
\--Can I call?  
\--I'm going to call 

 

Before he could begin to write back a message, a pictureless Jean popped up on his screen. He quickly answered, not wanting the buzzing to wake up anybody, although that was probably unlikely, “Jea--”

 

“How could you not have a favorite movie? I'd understand if you had _more_ than one, but none is just… impossible!”

 

“Uh, I don't know, it's - I'm sorry,” Marco dumbly mumbled, wondering if Jean had consumed any sugar within the last couple of hours before he called.

 

“You know I've got tons of DVDS, right? Take whichever one catches your eye next time you… come over or _want_ to hang out or-or something.”

 

“Alright,” He cleared his throat, fighting the laughter brewing in his throat at the way Jean was so easy to read, “So is that why you called? To talk about movies?”

 

“Yeah, it was sorta on impulse. So why are you awake? You're not pulling another all-nighter, are you?”

 

“No, I just… I can't sleep.”

 

He heard Jean's sarcasm before his mouth even opened, “No, really? I hadn't noticed.”

 

“Yeah, well, you are kind of dense sometimes,” Marco fired back and quickly felt horrible about it.

 

He heard papers shuffling from the other line, “Oooh, someone is grumpy. You _do_ remember we got an A, right? We're basically set for the semester.”

 

“I know, ‘m just over thinking other stuff. Are you doing your homework, Jean? Is that why you're awake?”

 

“Yup. Political science is surprisingly boring _and_ hard. And I have yet to figure out which part of it is science. What are you thinking about?”

 

“I can help if you want? I might not know much, though, since I had it last year,” He turned to the side, steadying his on his ear so he wouldn't have to hold it, “And isn't it my turn to ask a question?”

 

“Oh, so we're playing again? Go ahead, ask away,” He sounded like he was chewing.

 

With a nervous flutter and warm cheeks, he asked, “Do you, um, do you miss your dad?”

 

The line went quiet and he quickly regretted asking. Maybe it was too personal, but he was the only other person from their group of friends who was raised by a single mother and he wanted to know if his growing fears and anxiety were as irrational and immature as he felt.

 

“Ehh,” Jean said, his voice carefree and definitely full of food, but it sounded sweet to his worried ears, “nah, not really. Can't really miss an asshole who was never around. I only know what it's like to have mom, so if she left, I'd miss _her_. But this guy was never here so there's not much to miss.”

 

“Right, that makes sense.”

 

“That what you're thinking about?”

 

He sighed, “Yeah, a little.”

 

“Do you, er, do you wanna t-talk about it or something?”

 

Marco felt warmth in his chest. Jean was actually worrying about him now and he wished that alone would make him feel better, “No, it's alright. Maybe some other time. Hey, what are you doing on Saturday after five?”

 

“I have no idea,” He could hear him swallow, “Why?”

 

He played with a loose string on his pillowcase, the other comfortably between his bare thighs, “Wanna hang out after I get out of work?”

 

“Oh. Yeah. S-Sure. I guess.”

 

Jean's stuttering made him laugh, “Ok, I'm going to try and get some sleep now.”

 

“Mm, have fun.”

 

“Are you going to sleep yet?”

 

“No, I'm tryna bring up my other grades before the semester ends.”

 

Marco smiled, remembering what his friend had told him when he had stayed up doing his math study guide, “Hey, Jean, quit killing your brain and get some sleep.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, very funny,” He could hear him smiling, “bye, Bott.”

 

“Goodnight, Kirstein.”

 

Neither hung up, waiting for the other to give in first. Marco was finally feeling too comfortable to move and decided to leave the job to Jean. He heard an angrily flustered and quick “g’night!” before the line cut. The room grew quiet again, but his voice echoed in Marco's head like the way people counted sheep.

 

He fell asleep with Jean's cranky voice in the background of his subconscious, being utterly unaware that he kept staring at the abandoned rubix cube on the corner of the coffee table that he passed by everyday.

 

\--------------------

 

Marco's childhood was on clearance, but it felt more like someone had soiled his family name with how disrespected it made him feel. The glow in the dark stars were scattered on top of other clearance items - travel sized toothpaste, pink bracelets, nail polish, a pack of men's socks that had a hole through the bag, and children's books. Last time he had checked, the stars were almost three dollars, but now it was staring at him with a red printed sticker and black numbers, telling him it was only ninety-nine cents plus tax.

 

He grabbed three packs, the one's with different colors, and looked around the area. It was a Saturday afternoon and the supermarket was packed with people. None were looking his way, and he was very happy about the lack of attention, but he still felt silly about buying something that was out of his age range through the eyes of society. Especially since one of them were for him to add to his collection.

 

After work had ended and he had gone home and changed - along with giving an in detail description to his mother about where he'd be - the greatest of all ideas popped into his head as he was walking out the door. He hated going to people's homes empty handed and decided to give Jean a surprise. That surprise being a bit of nostalgia he'd be able to experience when he was in his fifties, looking back at his teenage years when he had stickers on his ceiling.

 

Marco grinned to himself, practically patting his own back as he made his way to the cash registers.

 

While he waited in the express line, his mind wandered off into the future. But more specifically, about the second of November. Armin had informed everyone via group chat that that whole weekend, the club would allow people to dress up in Halloween attire since the real day landed on a Thursday. And since Armin's birthday fell on a Sunday, and they didn't want to feel the after drag of a Friday's school day, Saturday was their favorite option.

 

He didn't know if any of his friends were going to dress up but he really hoped they would. They hadn't established too many of the details, only going on about how much fun it'll be, if they should just cram into one car like they did back when Krista was the only one with a real license or take two cars. But one thing was for certain - many of them were planning on drinking and Marco didn't know how he felt about that since he had cried a lot the last time he drank.

 

He shivered at the thought of himself bawling like a baby about how pretty his friends looked. Sasha and Connie, he knew, would most likely dress up. Even if they weren't on speaking terms or had planned if beforehand, the chances of those two showing up in costumes were extremely high. Krista and Reiner were as festive as those two and although Krista always tried convincing Ymir to participate, she rarely did.

 

It was hard to tell if the others would really put on costumes since every year they'd change their minds. He remembered in ninth grade how they had all hung out in Eren's basement, dressed in normal clothing, watching scary movies and pretending they didn't hear the trick-or-treaters getting fed candy by his mom upstairs. The lights had been turned off and they were huddled around on the then-empty floor with only blankets for cushion against the cold concrete. They had been freshman, finally in high school, and they were supposed to be cool. Except they weren't.

 

Jean - who had very nicely avoided being anywhere near a high Marco and vice versa - had left before the second movie even finished. Sasha had microwaved marshmallows and spent most of the night removing the gunk from her braces, making Connie help her after a while. Ymir had been new to the group at that time, but that didn't stop her from trying to put the moves on an unsuspecting Krista.

 

Armin and Mikasa kept telling Eren to stop making unnecessary remarks about the choices the characters made, first nicely then pleading with frustration. Annie, although always serious and uninterested, had been glued to the TV and the horror on it. It was her favorite holiday and they all knew that, but unlike her, it was Reiner and Bertholdt’s least favorite. They had been each other's own protection, using their hands on the other's faces when something gruesome happened.

 

The year after that they went around Bertholdt and Ymir's apartment complex - that's where people who had no candy made sure you knew by taping a sign onto their doors, not to mention it was more populated than spaced out houses, which meant more candy. They had dressed in shitty last minute costumes and had been asked, “Aren't you kids a little too old to be trick-or-treating?” more than once, but it had been fun. And Marco was glad about it because his junior year was spent the opposite way, working two jobs and struggling to keep up his grades - also known as the year his friends went unfestive to a Halloween party while he got yelled at by customers.

 

And this year was proving to be the most diverse - in every way possible. It wasn't bad, but it also wasn't what he'd call good. It was, in a way, dragging. He had spent the first half mindlessly working, on autopilot and not able to remember much about it. Now it felt like he had been holding his breath ever since he told Micah they'd go visit their father for Thanksgiving. He'd know it was a good year once that week was over and they had reunited with their father.

 

“Is this everything?” The smiley middle aged man asked once it was his turn to pay.

 

“Yes-oh!-wait, I'm sorry,” He spun around, searching through the rows of junk food before finding what he was looking for, “also these, please.”

 

“Alrighty,” He said, scanning each item, “three boxes of glow stars, one mint chapstick and four packs of beef jerky. This is probably the most innocent thing I've ever seen a teenage boy purchase.”

 

He awkwardly laughed with the cashier, nodding his head as if he understood what he meant. After he was done paying, he thanked him and walked with purpose - mostly because he _had_ been judged, but also because he didn't want his clothes to smell like the meat the store contained. It was bad enough that his work clothes smelled like breakfast, he didn't want his closet to get a weird mixture of the two.

 

The clang of metal shopping carts and mumbles filled his ears as he walked out. They slowly died down after every other parked car he'd pass, feeling a bit nervous after each step. The last time he had brought something for Jean with good intentions it had backfired - turning the grump into a ten year old kid who couldn't sit still for more than five minutes rather than a belly-filled, concentrated student.

 

His stomach cartwheeled as he drove down the road, blaming the pot holes or turns for it rather than admitting to himself that he _was_ nervous. And it only made his jitters worse when he couldn't think of why he felt that way. He kept making excuses until he was walking up to Jean's house.

 

There was another car next to his Jetta, one he'd only seen a few times but knew belonged to his bubbly mother. Marco gripped the plastic bag in his hands, suddenly feeling guilty that he hadn't brought anything for her, not that he knew she would be there, but still.

 

He was about to knock on the door when it swung open, revealing a messy haired Jean. His eyes were squinting at him as if the light entering his home was the first he'd seen in days. He was wearing pajamas, different kind this time, and Marco had to stifle a laughter.

 

Jean's brown sweatpants were a size too small, his ankles were visible without him even having to do anything but slump there, and his long beige shirt was even better. It was a solo picture of a basic yellow Pacman with the words ‘I eat balls for a living’ on the bottom. And then there were his socks. One had a Christmas tree on it that could probably stretch over his calf muscle and the other was a simple pink with a loose string at the seam.

 

He thought he probably should've called before coming over.

 

“Mom's sleeping,” He simply explained in a raspy voice, giving Marco space to come in.

 

“Is today not a good day?”

 

“I would've told you way earlier if it wasn't, now shut up and get inside. You're letting the cold air in.”

 

He did as he was told, taking off his shoes and hiding his present in his hand. When Jean started climbing the stairs, he wrapped the ears of the bag around itself so Jean wouldn't be able to see what was inside just yet. He stuffed it down his jacket pocket, keeping a hand around it just in case it decided to fall out as they quietly made their way upstairs. Besides the loud staircase, there was no evidence that anyone else was home.

 

Jean's room was a lot different than the last time he had been there. For one, the thick turquoise curtains were drawn, giving the atmosphere a dark and cold feel to it as the sun tried forcing its way inside. All the lights were off as well, the only thing illuminating the place was the whiteness coming from Jean's laptop that was placed on the floor. But as cold as it looked, it was actually warm inside, reminding his moistening hand about the bag he was holding.

 

Marco sat on the bottom bunk, hands in pockets and starring as Jean opted for the floor. He watched him lay on his belly and exit out of the many tabs that were on his computer before the silence became too weird, “Were you sleeping, too?”

 

Jean yawned, then answered, “Was about to, but then I heard your car.”

 

“Oh, sorry,” He looked at his feet, “so, what’d you guys do since you're all tired out?”

 

“I ran in the morning and then we went to the flea market, we ate, came back home and the rest… well you're looking at it. Mom's got a shit sleeping schedule, so she sleeps when she can. I was just passing out from boredom.”

 

“Right, she's got the night shift,” He started feeling less brave now that they didn't have a project to talk about, “Did you guys buy anything?”

 

“Yeah,” Jean sat up, finished with what he had been doing, and turned to him with half-lid, sleepy eyes, “Why’re you sitting like that?”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like if the bed was made out of thorns. If you're worried about my mom, don't be. I told her you'd be dropping by and she's ok with us hanging out in here.”

 

He hadn't even thought about that, but the reassurance from Jean made his nerves calm down a few notches. He was kind of glad Jean was able to read him so easily. Like when he indirectly made him reveal he had smoked pot before coming to his house to work on their project, like the other night when he knew he was in a not-so-happy mood and like right now. His up front personality saved him the face to admit what he felt.

 

“With the door closed?” Marco asked with a hint of teasing in his eyes.

 

Jean cracked a smile, amusing his question even though the door was slightly ajar, “Yeah, with the door closed.”

 

_Ok, it's now or awkwardly later._

 

“Hey, I got you something, as a thanks for helping me secure my grade like you said.”

 

“You what?” Jean blinked, his drowsiness fading.

 

“Hope you like it.”

 

Marco tossed him the bag and in one swift motion, he caught it. It crinkled in his hands as he began to unfold it. His eyebrows furrowed but then shot up. The corners of his scowling mouth turned upright as a genuine smile appeared. The two boxes had no chance of glowing in this type of lighting, and they both knew that, but just by the look on his face, Marco could tell this time his present wouldn't backfire.

 

“Why am I not surprised?” Jean asked, but everything about him said otherwise.

 

_Yeah, surprises are good for him_

 

“Sorry I couldn't get you anything better. I may work, but I'm still pretty broke.”

 

“And I may be an asshole, but not a big enough one to say free stuff sucks,” Jean stood up, walking to the red lamp at the corner of his room and switched it on, “so, you know, thanks.”

 

Marco beamed, “You're welcome.”

 

“Ok,” His deep, tired voice struggled to sound energetic, “let's get these suckers on.”

 

He watched as Jean climbed up the ladder to the top bunk, leaning just a smidgen away from him as he reached the top. The mattress creaked as his body laid down, followed by the tearing of the two cardboard boxes that filled the room.

 

Marco sat up from the not-so-thorny bed and peeked through the bars. Without craning his neck, he only got a glimpse of Jean's sweats, hipbone skin and funny shirt, so he decided to deal with the discomfort to see more. And sure enough, Jean was already angry at the instructions that he had torn apart with the stars in a messy pile beside him.

 

“Wait, you're really putting them on right now?”

 

“Yup.”

 

“But they haven't been exposed to enough light.”

 

“Well that's why I turned the lamp on.”

 

Marco held onto a bar, “Can I turn on the brighter one? So it can work better?”

 

“No, my eyes aren't ready.”

 

He was about to sit back down and wait for him to finish when he thought of something. It was a far fetched chance Jean would agree, but that one percent chance was always something to have hope for. In his mind he prayed that maybe today would be the day he'd be able to know what it's like to be on top of that bed.

 

“I think there's thirty in total,” Marco said, watching Jean scratch his head between the bars.

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“Yeah, that's a lot. Might take you a while.”

 

He saw him nod, “Probably.”

 

“It took me almost twenty minutes to put all of mine up.”

 

“Ya don't say?”

 

Marco pursed his lips, it felt like Jean was messing with him, “I do say.”

 

“Well, you do have a shit ton of them.”

 

“That's true. You know, I can help if you want?”

 

“I'm good.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Mmhmm.”

 

His face fell, “Oh ok. I'll just wait down here then.”

 

He backed away but remained watching the way Jean struggled with the adhesive. Through the wooden bars, he could tell his friend was becoming more and more agitated by his staring that might or might not have been on purpose. There were a couple of grunts and curses before Jean rolled his eyes at him and huffed, “Will you quit looking at me like that?”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like… Like nevermind,” His attention snapped back onto the instructions, but Marco could tell that he wasn't even reading it anymore because his eyes were glazed, most likely contemplating pros and cons and maybe even the end of the world by the choice he was about to make. Jean cursed again and closed his eyes with an expression like a parent about to grudgingly give their child a cookie before they'd eaten dinner, “If I let you come, will you stop staring?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Fine. Hurry up before I change my mind.”

 

Before he had even finished his sentence, Marco had already thrown off his jacket and started climbing. The ladder didn't feel as sturdy as it looked and he didn't know why that came as a shock to him - considering how old the thing must be. It wasn't that high either, but as he reached the top, the air started feeling different. But that could've just been his dizzying imagination.

 

“Watch your--”

 

“ _Ouch_.”

 

“--head,” Jean's warning came too late as Marco banged himself against the ceiling. Jean laughed at him, scooting as near as humanly possible to the side of the bed to give him room. He scooped up the scattered stars to his side so Marco wouldn't hide any of them underneath his broad back, “Don't get too cozy up here. This is a one time thing.”

 

“One time is all I need,” Marco smiled as he copied Jean's movements, leaving space in between them so he wouldn't feel uncomfortable.

 

His back hit the mattress with a creak and it was just as welcoming as the one below. The ceiling was oddly intimidating, giving him the same feeling like when he had his eyes closed during a shower and thought someone was behind him. It was less than an arm's length away from their faces, and if he reached out, his hands would be able to touch the flower-like pattern the cement had.

 

He turned his head to the left. The view from below made him feel vulnerable, but he knew there was no way the bed would actually break and collapse. That stuff was only for comedy movies. It still didn't stop him from feeling the tiniest bit afraid, though.

 

“This is awesome,” Marco faced him, grinning from ear to ear, but he was only greeted by a frown.

 

“You smell,” Jean blurted, his eyes accusatory.

 

“What?”

 

“I said you smell.”

 

He felt his smile disappearing, “Like what?”

 

_Please don't say meat, please don’t say meat!_

 

“Like waffles,” He sniffed, scrunching up his nose as he leaned in near Marco's hair, “yeah, waffles and coffee. Did you bring any?”

 

“Sorry, no,” He visibly relaxed, “I bought beef jerky, but that's my apology to Sasha.”

 

“Oh yeah, you didn't go to the play today,” Jean said, playing with one of the stars now, “I totally skipped it.”

 

“How come?”

 

“I forgot about it and anyway, my mom had already made plans with me before Sash blew up my phone to see if I was going. It's not that big a deal, though, is it? I mean, there's always next weeks play.”

 

“I guess so,” Marco said as he thought about Connie. The boy hadn't messaged him yet if today had been the day Sasha decided to confront him. The performance had started at two in the afternoon and was long finished by now, so the chances that their talking was today was low, “well, either way she's getting jerky.”

 

“Yeah, she has been more of a jerk lately,” Jean said, laughing at his own joke.

 

Marco smiled and turned his head towards the bare ceiling, “Birds of a feather flock togeth-- “

 

“Finish that sentence and you'll find yourself climbing back down.”

 

“Wait, I didn't mean it!”

 

“Hey, do you hear that?”

 

“Hear what?” He asked, confused and slightly afraid.

 

Jean cupped a hand to his ear and pretended to listen to the silence, “I think it's the sound of my bed telling me you're too heavy all of a sudden!”

 

“No! I'm sorry!” He stared at Jean, who appeared very happy that he had slight power over his emotions at the moment and no intentions of forgiving him yet. For someone who always offered to be his punching bag, Jean was being a bit of a sadist right now, “What I _really_ meant to say was, uh, was... strips of a jerky make people thirsty.”

 

“ _What_?”

 

“You know, ‘cause you and Sash are the strips and… and you make people thirsty.”

 

“I'm going to push you off my bed now,” Jean said, a small blush on the smiling face he was trying to force away. He made no move to actually murder him, though.

 

“Sorry,” Marco apologized, ogling his pinkness, “that was pretty lame.”

 

“Yeah, but you're always pretty lame.”

 

“That's true,” Marco agreed, touching the ceiling with his fingertips. It was cold and sharp against his very warm skin and he wished he could plant his face against it. Instead he decided to quickly keep the conversation going, “Do you ever have those falling dreams since you're up here? I think I'd dream about flying if I did.”

 

The bed creaked as Jean turned to his side and began organizing the stars by what color they were, “I probably did at first, but now I don't. After so many years, the _wow_ factor goes away.”

 

“But you live on a hill, I can't imagine how pretty the sky looks from here without the curtains drawn. It's a different view everyday. How can the _wow_ go away?”

 

Jean's foot brushed against his and Marco made a mental note that he was still afraid of freckled cooties by how quickly he had twitched it away, “Yeah, I-I guess, but it's just the _sky_... and bits of your neighborhood, so the view isn't all that great.”

 

“The sky is always great.”

 

“Meh,” He waved his hand, “ _comme ci, comme ça_.”

 

“ _Comme ci, comme ça_? Is that how you say _così così_ in French?”

 

“If _così così_ means this,” He said, moving his hand like a fan again, “then yes. I forgot the english translation or else I'd be telling you.”

 

“Yeah, me too, but I think your view is more than ‘meh’. How much do you want for it?”

 

“Hah?”

 

“I can buy your bed for you if you don't want it. It seems to me like it's been a little under appreciated,” He accused, not being totally serious and running a hand along the wooden bars like if it were a long lost lover.

 

Jean made a funny noise in the back of his throat that resembled half an irritated groan and half a gag, “Hey, I appreciate her the right amount, ok? And she's been with me since forever. You'd have to give me a million - no - a billion dollars to have her.”

 

“I understand,” He sighed with a twinkle in his eyes as he told Jean, “well at least I tried. You can have her.”

 

“She's already mine!”

 

Marco laughed, sometimes Jean was too easy to fluster, “I was just kidding, but I really can't believe you don't think your bed is amazing anymore. Mine doesn't even have frames, so I guess it's just me. Either way, I'm really jealous.”

 

“You sound like a kid,” Jean was staring at him and he knew why his face looked so amused. Marco wasn't as bulky as Reiner, but he also wasn't lean like the ex-soccer boys, and those muscles mixed with a childlike face - especially when he was in dreamland - made him look funny, “Now stop distracting me and help me stick these glow stars onto my ceiling.”

 

Marco nodded, taking the sticky adhesive from his pale hand and began tearing at it. They were completely ignoring the instructions it had, to cut it with scissors to make their lives easier - something the freckled boy should know better by now. And while Marco ripped random blotches of the double sided tape, Jean arranged the stars to his liking. The whole ordeal made him feel like they were working on another project.

 

And he was glad they actually weren't. Once upon a time, not too long ago, Jean would've never wanted him in his house unless there was a real important reason and now he didn't know what he liked better - there being no reason for them to be around each other or the reason being that they _wanted_ each other's company.

 

He liked to be liked, but it was something he hated. He knew it was impossible for everyone to sync with his personality, no matter how nice he tried to be, but it never stopped him from trying. Those feelings had stemmed from early in his childhood, from the summer after he had last seen his hometown and from feeling like second best ever since. He hadn't figured out that his father was the first to make him feel that way, he was keeping it locked up in his mental to preserve the idea of a father he had created long ago.

 

When he wasn't able to smear off his shadowy feelings on work, school or weed, his body would remind him of a certain break coming to a close. Annie's father and the rest of the teachers from the gym were up north, somewhere in the mountains on a retreat to train with professors with skills higher than their own. They went to train, observe and learn but also for a chance to upgrade their belts.

 

Annie would usually allow him to use the gym while she was there, but she hadn't sent him any messages saying it was ok this year.

 

Jean cleared his throat but said nothing as he started placing stars on the ceiling across from Marco's face with his ever growing tired right arm. It would have been easier if Jean had just instructed him where to put the stars so he wouldn't have to stretch his arm out so awkwardly while continuing to lay on his left side, but Marco decided not to tell him anything.

 

The sun outside was still struggling to get in and soon enough it'd give up by the dwindling time calling it to sleep. His room was still quiet, frozen in blue and a bit of softness from his fading lamp that barely made an impression. He could hear the heat from Jean's vent purring like an animal as he tried sinking deeper into the mattress while handing Jean more tape at the same time.

 

Like the last time, he had noticed too late just how close Jean was. Their breathing was mismatched and their skin close enough to feel the warmth coming from the other, and although he was fine with their silence and comfortable with their positions, it was Jean's turn to look like he was the one laying on thorns. Marco's mind kept telling him why Jean looked bothered, but he decided not to listen to his thoughts yet.

 

“I think it's your turn to ask a question,” Marco said, disturbing the peace to save Jean and also himself from worry.

 

“Oh, right,” He was momentarily startled by the sound of his voice, but continued to place a small green shooting star above his wavy haired head, “Lemme think…. Ok. Did it hurt getting your tattoo?”

 

“Kind of. When Reiner's dad worked on my back, it only stung a little before it got numb, but then when he got to my arms,” He paused, shaking his head at the memory and passed Jean another piece of tape, “I thought I was going to cry when he started working near my elbows.”

 

He laughed, “Wish I could've seen that. My mom would've freaked if she saw that I got something that… big.”

 

“Oh, trust me, my mom did freak. At first it was easy hiding my back since all I had to do was wear a shirt, but you know how with bigger tattoos you have to work in sections? Well, when it started showing on my arms, I had to come clean. Micah thought it was cool, but I think that's the angriest she's ever been at me.”

 

“I bet, that shit is permanent. So what does it mean?”

 

“What does what mean?”

 

Jean scooted further down the mattress to even out the stars. His knees shimmied down Marco's thigh and he started wondering what size the bed was because it definitely wasn't a queen. When his two-tone head stopped next to his chest, he finally turned on his back again and used his left arm to place stickers now. From his view, Marco could see the tangled mess that was Jean's hair, but it smelled fruity and nice.

 

“I mean,” Jean explained, “don't tattoos usually mean something special?”

 

“I guess, but not all the time. Sometimes it's just for fun. Have you seen Connie and Sasha's matching tattoos?”

 

“What? No way those two got one!”

 

“Yes way they did,” He almost elbowed Jean's temple when he pulled apart more adhesive, “oh, sorry. But yeah. They were all half drunk when it happened. That's how you get discounts from Mr. Braun.”

 

“When did this happen? What did they get? And why wasn't I notified?”

 

“I think they did it last year… but you're gonna have to ask Sash for the rest. She doesn't like talking about it and she'll get mad if you go to Connie or Reiner and try to ring it out of them.”

 

“Oh god, it was probably something gross,” Jean played with a purple planet, one that looked like it could either be Saturn or Uranus, and shook his head, “But anyways, yours must be pretty special if you went as far as hiding it from your _mom_. You don't really strike me as the type who'd do that for just a meaningless tattoo.”

 

He froze for a second, staring at the white blotches on his hand for Jean to take. He had told the others that that was exactly it, just a meaningless tattoo, even though it wasn't. If he were in a lighter mood he would've easily told Jean it was because he missed his father. But the worry and sadness that had been bubbling up in his chest since Wednesday was threatening to burst him open and he wasn't good at speaking when he was in a dark place.

 

“You're right. I don't really hide things from her, but I'm just as much of a teenager as you are. There's lots I don't tell her,” He handed Jean the last three tapes that were left and forced his voice to sound indifferent, “And besides, it's my turn to ask a question now.”

 

Jean looked up at him, eyes curious, slightly surprised and thoughtful before he turned back to the ceiling and hiding his face, “Ok then. What's your question?”

 

“Did it hurt getting your ears pierced?”

 

“Pssh, that's your question?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“No, it didn't hurt,” One of the stars slipped from his hand and smacked him on the forehead, “Fuck. Are you thinking about getting your ears pierced now?”

 

“Ears? Mm, no. I was thinking of somewhere more private.”

 

It was a joke, but Jean didn't get it because his ears turned pink, “I'm not even going to ask _where_.”

 

Marco laughed, still feeling coldness in his gut, but relieved to have changed the subject, “Well, you have to ask something since it's your turn.”

 

“Right,” He shuffled back up, avoiding Marco's gaze as he stared at his handiwork. The too long shirt he was wearing had shifted when he moved, most of the material was to the side, revealing a good portion of his neck and collarbone, “Do you wanna go somewhere?”

 

Now it was his turn to be surprised, “Right now?”

 

“Yeah right now. It's still kinda early isn't it?”

 

“I think so, but where are we--”

 

“I'm not telling you where we're going,” He interrupted. His tone wasn't harsh and it wasn't angry. It sounded a million miles away like the look in his eyes were. Those same amber eyes that were afraid of something when they had stared at each other over a week ago.

 

He could feel his nervousness creeping back, “That's the second time you tell me you’re not going to tell me something.”

 

“Yeah, well…” He shrugged, refusing to look anywhere but up.

 

“Can I have a hint?”

 

“Nope,” His eyebrows furrowed, probably already knowing what’ll happen if he didn't let Marco get his way. He thought for a second before speaking again, “Ok, fine. It's a place you've never been before.”

 

_Connie was right. He's not very creative._

 

“Oh, I've always wanted to go to California.”

 

“Who said anything about--why do you think I meant--I don't have that kind of money to be traveling across the country!”

 

“So it's closer?” He decided he really liked teasing Jean. It didn't feel like he was overstepping boundaries anymore, “I guess Texas is fine, too.”

 

Jean grumbled, “I'm not going to tell you where we're going, Marco… and that's still fucking far.”

 

“Is that my only hint then?”

 

“Yeah, so are we going or not?”

 

“If I say yes, will you at least let your mom know where we'll be?”

 

“Duh,” He said, pulling out his phone from his sweatpant’s pocket but not making a move to actually use it, “I'll send her a message just in case she wakes up.”

 

Marco's stomach flopped again. His mind had been right. The conversation they had had when they were on Jean's floor high of their socks was playing in his head, he knew it was the reason for the sudden change of feeling. The atmosphere around them felt fragile now, almost as tense and secretive as Jean.

 

Whatever he was holding back would be let out in the open like the wet laundry mother's hung outside during the summer. He could just feel it by the way his face looked - unsure and yet determined. It made Marco's insides tighten with anticipation because maybe now he'd be able to know what Jean was so sorry for and maybe now he'd get the courage to apologize to him, as well, about what he couldn't before.

 

“Ok,” Marco agreed, knowing Jean was looking at him from his peripherals, “ok, let's go somewhere.”


	13. Opaque

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How to: Long Car Rides:  
> \- Listen to music  
> \- Eat  
> \- Play games  
> \- Exchange stories  
> \- Feel open  
> \- Be honest  
> \- Get embarrassed by honesty  
> \- Cue emotions

“Jesus,” Jean hissed, struggling to hold his burger in one hand, steadying the steering wheel in the other and flicking down his left turn signal at the same time - they had just successfully avoided ruining the bumper of the driver in front of them, “how come no one in this damn town knows how to drive?”

 

Marco was sitting beside him, quietly nibbling on his own burger with fear in his wide eyes. Jean could tell he finally noticed that he wasn't just a reckless driver in his Tahoe, he was also a reckless driver in his own car - not that he'd ever admit to that. His bad driving skills increased tenfold when put under pressure, and he usually enjoyed the faces his passenger seat friends made when he drove, but right now he was burdened with a black mass of emotions.

 

Before they had left, Jean hadn't bothered changing out of his pajamas. He figured throwing on his hoodie would hide his laziness, but it didn't, and he figured it out when his car needed gas and his stomach food. And there was nowhere better to get some than at the gas station near the highway. It was no Quicktrip or Racetrack, but it was better than those anyway. A small restaurant was attached to it and it had cheap greasy ‘homemade’ food that'd keep you full for hours. It probably wasn't good for his skin, but it was good for his nerves.

 

He had ordered Marco to stay in the car when he had finished pumping the gas in - not wanting him to get the urge to pay for their food - and left him parked there while he went to the burger joint. The place was empty, but the girl behind the register had looked him up and down before giving him that forceful, dead smile restaurant workers were too tired to hide - and she had mixed it with judgment - as if he didn't know just how cute he must’ve looked at the moment.

 

Four burgers, two cokes and ten bucks later, they were weaving through the traffic on the highway with chaos. Jean's music was playing softly today, he couldn't eat, drive and enjoy ear-tearing songs all at the the same time. Like his mother, he wasn't gifted in the art of multitasking.

 

“You don't have to be anywhere important anytime soon, do you?” Jean asked, moving once again into a left lane. It’d only taken him over ten minutes to remember to ask.

 

“Mmm, no, why?”

 

He felt fresh guilt rising up his chest like a heartburn, “Because it's, like, an hour away… plus traffic… plus coming back which is another hour or less, depending on how long we talk.”

 

Marco kept his focus on the busy road and his voice deep in thought, “Jean, where on earth are you taking me?”

 

“Not telling.”

 

Although that was only the third time he'd said that, he felt like it was three times too many. He could tell Marco was probably tired of hearing it, but this time he was actually trying to do something nice. They were going someplace he'd never taken anyone before - mostly because he himself had forgotten about it - and he was glad he still knew how to get there. It was private, not even their cell phones could be of much use once they'd arrived, which would probably freak Marco out a bit, but he had been reminded of this secret place with all of his “the sky is always pretty” and “I got you some stars” talk.

 

So really, it was all _his_ fault that they were now flying down the highway.

 

Jean's heart pounded with hot apprehension and sweaty terror as they said goodby to another exit. The other cars were beginning to dwindle, and when they'd finally reach their destination, he knew they'd be the only ones around. They'd be alone and he didn't know how it'd go, but it was happening. The talk was finally happening after god knows how many years and he knew they'd need that privacy.

 

“You listen to a lot of instrumental music,” Marco noted, taking a sip from his drink. The traces of anxiety in his voice was as clear as a politicians lies, “Is that your favorite kind?”

 

“Hmm. Is it your turn to ask a question? Is that where we left off?” He didn't bother making fun of how he could've possibly known that, Jean was well aware that he played his music everywhere he went.

 

Marco quickly picked up that he wanted to resume playing their game, “Yeah, you asked me out, rem--”

 

“Oh, right,” He cut him off, feeling embarrassed about the way he was wording it, “Yeah, I guess it's my favorite kind.”

 

“I always thought you were the type to listen to rock or that post-hardcore stuff you put on when we went to Walmart, since you're so… hardcore. It fits you.”

 

“I only play that when I'm mad, but if we were in middle school, your stereotype would've been correct,” He had wanted it to sound playful, but his vocal cords weren't listening to him and it came out sounding as if he were mad. They both fell silent - Jean for hating his betraying body and Marco for unknown reasons.

 

_That's why we're doing this_ , Jean reminded himself, _too many question marks, too many._

 

He abandoned the room temperature burger in his right hand, stiffly throwing it on top of the dashboard. Pieces of chopped lettuce scattered around, some dropping inside the air vents, other's down the stereo where Jean's hand was now turning up the volume. It was a soothing song that he often loved to listen to when he couldn't sleep, but listening to it with someone else - someone who should've already known why he was sorry - was a bit disconcerting.

 

“What question are we on?” Jean asked, trying to get the conversation flowing again, “I forgot to keep track.”

 

“Fifteen, I think.”

 

“Ok, my fifteenth question is the same as your fourteenth. What's your favorite kind of music?”

 

Marco was looking out the window, his reflection barely visible by the sun and other running cars, “That's a hard one. Can you be more specific?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well,” He said, turning to him, “my taste depends on a lot of things. Like the season, the weather, how I feel… “

 

They drove over a pothole before Jean unsurely said, “Ok, that's complicated, but ok. What's your favorite genre to listen to when it's summer?”

 

“What time in the summer?”

 

“What _time_?”

 

He could hear the smile in Marco's repeated words, “Yeah, what time?”

 

“Uhh… four? Four-thirty? Four-thirty seven.”

 

“AM or PM?”

 

"PM.”

 

“Am I alone or with friends?”

 

“Alone. And you're not working or boxing or whatever, either.”

 

“Then, where am I?”

 

“Ugh, I dunno? Your house?”

 

Marco hummed, “Am I outside or inside my house?”

 

“Outside…”

 

“Ok. Am I eating ice cream or just sitting around?” He innocently asked, but Jean caught the mischief in his tone.

 

“You're outside in the four-thirty seven afternoon heat of the summer - alone - eating ice cream like how Dip-N-Thot’s would, and your balls are starting to stick to the side of your sweaty thigh because who in the _hell_ likes to be outside doing nothing but listening to music!”

 

The loud burst of laughter coming from beside him made Jean's flesh jump out of its bones. He quickly turned to glare at Marco, who was red faced and hiding it behind one of his rough hands, embarrassed by how part of what Jean had said was relatable, but also disgusted by his choice of vocabulary. Instead of complaining to him about the scare, Jean let his giggles mix with the other's, vaporizing some of the rib-trembling fear fighting against him.

 

Marco's face was still colorful when he was ready to answer, “Don't freak out on me again, ok? But I don't really have a favorite type.”

 

“First movies and now this. What's wrong with you? How do you not have a favorite?”

 

“I just listen to everything.”

 

“ _Everything_ , everything?”

 

“Everything, everything,” He repeated, “Oh, but I guess I listen to folk music more than anything.”

 

“Ah, at least that's something. And I guess that makes _you_ the walking stereotype here.”

 

“I guess so,” He chuckled, wiping a tear with the back of his jacket sleeve. His funny patterned sweater was underneath and Jean wondered if he had taken it from his mother, too.

 

He flipped his left turn signal again and swerved into the lane a second later. The car behind them had to step on their brakes for the rude intrusion, but luckily they didn't honk, he really hated it when they honked, “What's the appeal in banjo’s and yodeling? Do you also like old, long bearded men or is it just the music?”

 

“Oh definitely the old men, but then during summer, I trade them for Micah's reggae music. And then in the fall, I listen to my mom's Italian songs and the entire soundtrack of _The Nightmare Before Christmas_ on repeat. During spring... spring is when I listen to indie music - strictly acoustic.”

 

“That's so… fuck. That's so complicated. Music isn't supposed to be a schedule, but I guess holiday songs are ok… does a movie soundtrack count?” Jean asked, more to himself than to Marco. His love for films momentarily clouded his mind.

 

“I'm just kidding, Jean,” He laughed, “Actually, half kidding. I mostly listen to what's on the radio, but I really do enjoy other people's taste as my own. Ok, I have my fifteenth question.”

 

Jean drove by another exit. The highway had turned from a six lane to a four and there was nothing but towering trees and five other cars along with them. Two were a few meters back, another in front of them with a _BABY ON BOARD_ sticker on its tinted window. He could barely make out the one way ahead of them all and the one to their right had a young couple inside with loads of boxes in the back seats.

 

“Ok, shoot. What's your question?”

 

“What's the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to you?”

 

“Shit, that's a good one, I'm going to use that one on you later."

 

“Oh, god. Alright. That's fine.”

 

_Of course._

 

Jean's eyes focused on the road and how the sun was still irritatingly bright on their faces, “Can I trust that you won't repeat what I'm about to say?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Swear?”

 

“I swear,” He coolly said, tone curious and excited about what he was about to hear.

 

Jean sighed, feeling like he was about to unwillingly give a criminal secret documents only the government was allowed to see, “Ok. Well, I think this happened around second grade, somewhere around that age, when me and mom left our apartment to move into the house we're in now. I was happy to have a place to run around, not that I ever ran much back then, so naturally, my mom let me go around the neighborhood unsupervised to get some exercise. Everything was normal - I circled the whole place trying to look for kids my age, but I don't think I found any because I started heading back - and that's when I saw _it_.”

 

“Saw what?” Marco asked, absorbed in the story by that last line. Jean could feel his honey eyes on him.

 

“A massive-ass ant hill, property of small demons with no souls. Except I was unaware of that at the time. I don't know how I'd missed it in the first place, but mom says I used to walk looking down at my feet, so I guess that's how. But anyways, so I see this red pile of shit next to my front door neighbor's mailbox, the house on the corner? Yeah the blue one, and it was _huge_. The thing was about the size of most of my second grade leg.

 

“And back then I used to be… aggressive, you could say. I calmed down after that incident. So yeah, instead of being a normal kid and finding a twig or something to poke at it with, _my_ smart ass decided to just stomp the living shit out of it - and I mean _stomp_. I'm practically flying by how hard I'm stepping on the thing! There's sand - or whatever the fuck anthills are made out of - going _everywhere_!

 

“It gets on my face, on my hair, inside my shirt and of course, most of it goes up my pants. Next thing I know I start seeing the sand move. The ants… they gave no mercy. It didn't go from ‘oh this tickles’ to ‘I think I'm on fire’. That shit burned without warning and I just remember screaming and screaming and I _still_ hadn't realized they were fire ants! I just thought the sand was made out of lava - stop laughing, I know I wasn't that smart!

 

“As I was saying, soon after, I start smacking myself all over the place trying to fight the sand. And then I hear the neighbor coming out and I hear my mom screaming at my screaming. I think they talked for a second, asking the other what happened, but I was in too much agonizing pain to pay much attention. What I _do_ remember, though, is how my neighbor picked me up and placed me somewhere safer and how my mother stripped me naked right there, outside in broad fucking daylight before bringing out the neighbors hose and watering down every inch of my body.”

 

“Jean,” Marco breathed, his voice was strained and sorry, he had been laughing non-stop halfway through the story, “how are you still alive? I would've died of embarrassment!”

 

He smiled, hopping forward to bring some blood back to his numb butt, “Because nobody saw! I got lucky only the neighbor did and he was an old man so I didn't really care. He moved a long time ago, so it's like it never even happened.”

 

“Oh my god, but were you ok after that? Did you go to the hospital?”

 

“Yeah, I don't remember much about it, though,” He internally sighed with the memory of how being in physical pain was the only kind of pain he knew, “I've got tiny scars running up and down my right leg, where they got me the most, but you can barely see them since it happened like a decade ago. Plus, now I've got man skin.”

 

“Man skin,” Marco echoed, giggling at his words, but then his tone grew serious, “wait, does that mean the ants bit your… you know?”

 

“My what?”

 

“Your... did they bite you _down there_?”

 

_Is this guy for real?!_

 

“Dick!” Jean yelled, making the other jump in surprise, “The word you're looking for is dick! And yes, they did, sorta. I wore the tightest tighty-whitey’s during that time and I'm not ashamed to admit that because I've got a great, functioning _dick_ thanks to them.”

 

“Ok, ok, I get it. They saved your manhood,” Marco said, looking down at the half eaten burger on his lap. The other two Jean had bought were on the floor next to his feet, protected by tinfoil and scattered napkins.

 

_So he can ask me if I want to get eaten, but he can't say dick? I don't think so, Bott._

 

Jean smirked, “Say it.”

 

“Huh?”

 

He looked at Marco's questioning face for a quick second before turning his gaze back on the road, “Say dick.”

 

“I'm not going to say di - I'm not going to say that.”

 

“Why not?” He asked, even though he knew why. The boy was too virtuous to say it for no good reason and he couldn't hide behind a text message, “C’mon, just say it. It's just a word, no need to get shy about it.”

 

Marco stuttered a fine mess before saying, “I'm not being shy, I just don't feel like saying it right now.”

 

Jean peeked at him again, seeing the pink on his face made him laugh, “You really suck at lying, you know that?”

 

“Y-Yeah, I've been told,” He said, sighing in relief and thinking the danger had passed. Little did he know that Jean wasn't about to let him off that easily, besides, teasing him would be a good way to make the time go by.

 

With a sly smile, Jean nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders and made sure to have great eye contact with his saintly friend for a quick second, “So. You're an eighteen year old guy and your favorite type of genitalia is… ?”

 

“What?”

 

“When you pull down your pants to take a piss, you pull out your… ?”

 

“No, I'm not saying it.”

 

“Which part of your body is already saluting the marvelous Trost mornings before you're even awake?”

 

“Jean!”

 

“No, not me, but good guess!”

 

He spent the next ten minutes trying to get him to say dick, the color on Marco's cheeks remained pink, sometimes fading, but then bursting back when Jean came up with a new sentence for him to fill in the blank. His stubbornness eventually won him over when Marco called him one, putting an end to their dick argument.

 

“I can't believe you made me say it,” Marco had huffed.

 

“I can't believe it took that long for you to say it.”

 

He had refused to look at Jean for a whopping one whole minute after that. Jean had thought it was because he was angry, but then when Marco turned to look at him with a small smile, he knew that wasn't it. His face didn't resemble one that'd been annoyed like how Eren and Ymir usually showed towards his dirty mouth, it was more like the kind of face people gave when they were done being ashamed about _being_ ashamed. It was the face of a virgin being called out for being one and it made Jean's own face heat up.

 

The flustered boys decided to remain quiet for a while. If felt awkward at first, but it helped that there was music playing in the background. Jean worried that Marco was getting bored, but then remembered what kind of person he was.

 

He probably thought the pines and trees with different colored leaves of pink, yellow, brown and orange were good enough to hold his attention. Or that the weak heat coming from the lowering sun beautifully casted nature's shadow on the ground, some of it warping into different creatures by uneven earth or bushes. He might even think the puffy ripples of the cirrocumulus clouds in the sky looked like rows and rows of candy, ones he could pick and eat without a care.

 

_Yeah, that's probably what he's thinking right now, he's got that spacey look on his face again… but I guess it is a little pretty. Even if it is just trees and clouds. A simple type of pretty. Jesus, what is he turning me into?_

 

Somewhere along the way, the two had gotten their appetites back, but the burgers had gone cold by then - even the ones tucked in foil. Jean couldn't finish his, and since Marco hated wasting food - whether it was bought for him or not - he ate both of theirs. The windows had to go down (despite the cold weather) after he'd swallowed the last bite. His stomach began aching and he didn't want to puke in the car, to which Jean responded with by offering him a plastic grocery bag that'd been in the glove compartment, just in case he _did_ blow chunks, but the old melted-then-hardened-again chocolate inside of it only made Marco feel more queasy.

 

Jean had had half a mind to rub his back and make him some lemonade like his mom used to do when he’d been younger and would refuse to take medicine, but that would be crossing a very weird line, and life hadn't thrown any lemons at him yet. He had to helplessly drive while he waited for his friend to get better all on his own.

 

And once Marco's stomach had fully settled, Jean was able to loosen his grip on the steering wheel. He had forgotten all about the cruel temperature and started playing songs with actual singing. Unlike Marco's bizarre taste, he enjoyed listening to alternative or indie pop - never strictly acoustic. He sang with the singers, not caring that his voice cracked or if he had said the wrong lyrics. He liked making Marco laugh at his tone-deafness and now that the danger of bodily fluids escaping his mouth was gone, he tried making Marco feel comfortable again.

 

Jean even let him play his banjo-folk music, and even though he didn't say it out loud, he actually liked it. It made him feel like a true country boy, all he needed was a piece of wheat in his mouth, overalls with a nice plaid shirt underneath and a straw hat to complete the picture. None of the artists sounded like old men, which he had taken seriously, and that was probably more surprising to him than the fact that he took it upon himself to ask what _this_ song was called or if _that_ song came out in a movie.

 

And to his utter satisfaction, there was a song with actual yodeling, but Marco had quickly changed it before Jean could crash into a ditch from all his tearful laughter. He switched it to his brother's reggae songs, reminding them of their cringe worthy talk that had taken place in Jean's backyard when they were high. They snickered and chuckled at how he'd responded to Marco's question in the wrong language or how Marco's head had looked like a planet with its own ring around it when Jean had successfully ripped that wig off.

 

“We are _never_ doing that again,” Jean said as their laughter died down, “I still can't believe I passed out. What's the point of getting high if I can only experience it for five minutes?”

 

“It happens sometimes, especially if you're not used to it or take too much.”

 

“Next time we're drinking,” He joked, remembering how Marco had reacted that one day, way back in a forgotten month, when he'd been dancing on the edge of tipsy and drunk, “Just imagine how bad our next project would be if we did.”

 

“Oh, I am,” Marco moaned, recalling the same memories as Jean, “half of it would be wet with tears and the other half torn to a million pieces.”

 

Jean pointed a finger to himself, “I'm the million pieces?”

 

“Yes, yes you are. You're not an angry drunk, but you _are_ the type to pick fights… at least with me.”

 

He vaguely remembers getting his ass beaten thanks to Mikasa’s unfair dare and how drunkenly confident he had been, only to end up on his back with Marco in between his legs, “Well, I only tried fighting you one time, so…”

 

“You tried several times!” Marco howled with amusement, “and I gave in to your challenges and we got in trouble for spilling vodka on Ymir's carpet! Not to mention you even touched my--! … “

 

“ … Touched your what?” Jean asked when it looked like he wasn't planning to finish that stressful sentence, he was beginning to feel sweat forming between his palms and steering wheel, “Marco, I touched your what?”

 

“My, erm, my ni-nipple.”

 

“Your… nipple? … just one?” He asked, confused. Knowing himself, he thought he would've shamelessly tried to do more, but this _was_ Marco. He guessed his baggage of guilt was always with him, even in his subconscious, “Sorry I touched your one nipple.”

 

“What do you mean _just one_? Well, nevermind. It was only a poke so it's alright. I'm guessing you don't remember what you said after that either, right?”

 

“It wasn't, uh, nasty was it?” He really hated himself sometimes, he was the most unreliable person he knew.

 

“No, nothing nasty. I don't really remember, but it was somewhere along the lines of ‘I used to think brown nipples made chocolate milk’.”

 

And then Jean wished he had said something vulgar. It would've made much more sense than saying _that_!

 

“Fuuuck, I'm so sorry! That's so… fuck, that's so embarrassing! I can't believe I fucking said that to you,” He kept sputtering apologies, somehow feeling worse about those offensive words than his drunken poke. Marco held his hands up, letting him know it was fine, but it didn't feel fine, “If it makes you feel any better, I _love_ chocolate milk. It's the best, it’s my favorite and I drink it almost every night, so I wasn't trying to be mean when I said that, really!”

 

“It's fine, it's fine!” Marco seemed less anxious now that the road was empty and the threat of crashing into another car gone… or maybe it was because all of this humiliation on him had worn down and overcrowded his emotions, leaving no space for worry, “Seriously, it's fine, Jean. Ju-Just please, no more milk talk.”

 

“Right, ok. I can do that.”

 

They continued listening to music, trying to put their body temperatures back to normal. The air helped plenty, it bit their over-heated faces and provided a needed diversion to keep their thoughts busy and mouths shut. Jean's mind wandered off into the past, and how long Marco must've been carrying that story with him. If the rolls were reversed, he wasn't sure what he'd do since their relationship back then was nowhere near as friendly as they were now.

 

He hazily remembers how Marco had almost told him what'd happen that night when Jean first went to the freckled boy’s house. He'd been sitting on his beanbag chair, asking if he'd heard the mumbled "nipple” right, but Marco quickly brushed it off. He didn't think it was important at the time, so he let it go. And it was a good thing too. It would've been horrible if he'd been confronted about it back then.

 

It was funny how slowly and yet so quickly things changed. One minute you're lying face down dreading the thought of having to see someone that made your stomach ache and knees tremble, and then the next, you're poking their nipples and getting the urge to tell them they can touch yours as payback. And the most absurd thing about it was that Jean _still_ didn't feel like he deserved any of it. Not the warmth in his chest when they laughed together, not the clumsy stolen glances, not the worry Marco would feel for him, and definitely not the present he'd received for his ceiling.

 

But he was hoping those feelings would change today because, although he felt that he didn't deserve it, he wanted it and _really_ wanted to make things right. It bothered him that he had only agreed with himself to be Marco's friend through guilt when that's not how it really was. He liked Marco, he liked being able to be himself around him in a way he couldn't with the others and he liked how they were becoming more playful around one another.

 

Jean still wasn't able to call him any bad names when Marco's mouth got too smart, so he made due with flicking him on the ears and arms like how Ymir did to everyone else. Other days he'd playfully ruffle his head away, purposely messing up his wavy hair because he knew it didn't bother him. Sometimes, though, it was hard to tell when those things were appropriate to do.

 

Marco, on the other hand, made it seem like the most natural thing. He had stopped with the flicks after leaving Jean a tiny finger-sized bruise on his forearm last Friday, but that didn't stop him from being physical. He'd shoulder bump Jean to say hello when they coincidentally met in the school hallways, he'd poke the back of his neck during anatomy class when he'd start drifting off to sleep (he had to do the same with Eren and Sasha), and he'd teasingly hit their shoes together in Language Arts when Jean got too deep in thought and stopped paying attention. The only name calling he ever said was Jeanbo, and it always threw him off that Marco meant it in an _endearing_ way.

 

In one week they had climbed up into something that he knew was a lasting friendship and it scared him. Making friends when you're seventeen wasn't the same as making friends when you're seven, when you're older you pay attention and start caring about losing those friends. And he was worried they were on their way back down if the conversation awaiting for them was headed in a bad place.

 

\--------------------

 

The sun had begun setting by the time Jean announced that they were almost there. Less than half of it was gently blinding their eyes, but it felt so good against their frozen skin. The road in front of them was a lake of sparkling granite and the sky the color of a fire’s dying embers. Something about today made him appreciative of that view, and he felt special having a front row seat.

 

He blamed the boy next to him for making his perceptive all mushy.

 

“Uhh,” Marco looked out his window, eyes squinting as if he were trying to find something in the distance, but all they saw were bundles of giant hay, “are you sure we're almost there? We're in the middle of nowhere.”

 

“Yeah, I'm sure. I've been there like three times.”

 

He probably should've lied since his honesty only made Marco start fidgeting. It didn't look like much, but he knew he'd love the place as soon as the sun decided to take its remaining set with it. They’d been on a two way highway for a few minutes now, but the trees had long decided to leave them behind. There was nothing but grass, wheat, grass, the occasional wooden fence, maybe some roadkill, and more grass.

 

Once he saw what he was looking for, his legs began to feel as weak and wobbly as the jello shots Ymir used to make.

 

Up ahead, there was the shabby and familiar abandoned diner he had accidentally found three years ago. Its windows were still painted pitch black from the inside, some parts of it badly barricaded with aged duct tape, but even still the sunlight couldn't show what was hidden inside. There had never been a sign to indicate the name of the place, but it wasn't hard to tell that it'd belonged to someone who'd wished to start their own business.

 

The whole restaurant was painted in a soft yellow, without a doubt trying to look like a warm and inviting place, but now it looked like a dandelion squished underneath a shallow puddle of mud. The roof resembled one of a house, but thicker and sturdier for those springtime storms and tornadoes, parts of it were caved in. The most haunting thing about it was how massive the front windows were, black and towering without advertisement or unnecessary designs to disturb it. It must've been a beautiful place long ago, but time had swallowed it whole and spit it out in a lonely future.

 

“Is that - is that where we're going?”

 

Jean slowed down, only just noticing how fast he was going, “Yeah, but it's not as scary as it looks.”

 

“Scary? I never - I didn't say it was scary.”

 

“Please, I don't even have to look at you to know you're afraid.”

 

With a sharp turn - sharp enough to make their bodies drag across the seat - Jean drove over the bumpy cement and onto to the parking lot. There was a sea of tall grass surrounding anything that wasn't concrete, but there were deep cracks along the pavement that nature had taken advantage growing out of, trying to get its land back, and it was winning. The wispy strands swayed as they continued driving.

 

_Shit, it's getting darker._

 

“Hey, for the next two minutes you're not allowed to look outside.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

“Just… trust me,” He rigidly begged. Sensing Jean's stress, Marco complied to the bizarre request, closing his eyes and laying his head back against the soft seat. His face turned to Jean's direction, calm and open without a single trace of mistrust. It made Jean’s stomach churn and he began to wonder what this boy was made out of.

 

The closer they got to the building, the more unwilling he started to become. Impulse had been the courage he found when they laid on his bunk bed, now he just wanted to run back home and hide. His bravery was starting to crack like the glass on the rotting building, he didn't feel ready for a conversation he had successfully avoided for seven years.

 

Jean felt a shiver run down his spin as he parked the Jetta, nuzzling the car in between the diner and highway.

 

“Do you still feel like puking?” Jean asked, watching Marco to make sure he wouldn't open his eyes, and he didn't, “Can I roll the windows up now?”

 

“Oh yeah, go ahead. I'm fine.”

 

Jean nodded even though he couldn't see him and left the cold out where it should be. He didn't know how Marco could love having the windows down all the time, and he didn't know how he hadn't gotten sick from it yet.

 

They pretended to get comfortable, taking off their seat belts, readjusting their positions and wondering when it was a good time to speak up. Jean was glad Marco's eyes were still closed because his hands were visibly shaking and he didn't know if it was just because of the lingering coldness. If his heater didn't make such a loud, roaring sound when turned on, he would've blasted it the minute they’d left his driveway.

 

Marco decided to break the silence, but spoke quietly, “Do I still have to keep my eyes closed? I already saw where we're at… even though I still have no clue where _where_ is. Jean, where are we?”

 

“Yes, you still have to keep your eyes closed. And I have no idea where we are, I just know how to get here.”

 

“O-Ok, but you know how to get back, right?”

 

“Mmhm.”

 

“Ok, that makes me feel better.”

 

“You look so scared. Relax, man, I’m not going to kill you or anything.”

 

“I wasn’t thinking that,” He blushed and toyed with the sleeves of his jacket. His fingers curled and uncurled as he cleared his throat, “So what's the story behind this place? How’d you find it?”

 

Jean looked out before them while he spoke, the road was to their left, the diner to the right and nothing but a jungle of yellowing grass for miles ahead, “‘When I first got my license, I got lost trying to go into the city. I was out of gas because I forgot to refill and cell phone reception sucks down here so I had no choice but to wait for a passing car. I was able to pull in the parking lot right before I ran out of juice.”

 

“You got lost trying to… ? The city is in the complete opposite direction,” Marco said, pulling out his phone with a flicker of worry across his scrunched up face, his eyes were still obediently shut, “And I guess I don't need this,” He sighed, letting it slide down the seat.

 

“Yeah, you don’t, I had to learn that the hard way.”

 

Marco giggled, “Do you know how to get to the city now? You should take all of us one day, like one big field trip.”

 

“Uh, no. Even if I _did_ know how to get there, I wouldn't take everyone with me. It'd be a disaster. Connie would get lost, Ymir would leave with a stranger, Armin would get tired within the first five minutes and no, just no. They'd make me go bald.”

 

“I'll get you some Rogain. I think it'd be fun to go at least once with everyone before we graduate.”

 

“I dunno… do _you_ know to get there?”

 

“I wish. I always take my mom or Annie with me if I need to go. They know their way around complicated areas,” And with a squeeze of his eyes and a timid voice he added, “I'm guessing you were alone when you ended up here?”

 

“Ha, yeah. I mean, I always drove alone when I had my permit, since nobody actually listens to the rules, so I never thought about taking anyone with me in the first place. And having your license feels like you get a free pass to go anywhere, anytime. Those car rides are better when you're alone,” He felt pathetic as soon as those words left his mouth, then checked to make sure Marco hadn’t taken it the wrong way.

 

He was slightly pouting, closed eyes moving from left to right while his speckled nose crinkled. Jean heard him mumble something like ‘I listened to the rules’ before more loudly saying, “How long did you have to wait before you got help? Was it as long as I've had my eyes closed?”

 

Jean took advantage of the way Marco couldn't see him to give him a good flick on the arm. It wasn't enough to hurt him, with all those layers he was covered in, but it was enough to make the other understand the playful warning. With an unseen smile at Marco, Jean checked the time and then his real objective. It was past eight, which meant they were at a good time. He didn't like being so mysterious, but otherwise he'd give himself away. His friend had given him a thank you present, and although he wasn't trying to out-do him, he wanted to thank him too.

 

“Unlike you, I had to wait for hours,” His voice softened when he realized how much Marco was letting him stall, “I don't remember how many, but it was enough to make me pee outside. I had been scared out of my mind about getting eaten by whatever monsters live out here that I didn't notice the sky.”

 

“What do you mean? What's wrong with the--” Before he could finish, Jean gave him another flick, this time on the forehead to get his eyes open. Dark honey flooded him, and when words failed to come out of his mouth, he pointed outside with his thumb, making Marco's eyes follow.

 

The sky wasn't completely dark yet - and out in these deserted places, if you had no light, it'd be blacker than black (unlike the purplish tint that remained in populated cities). Here, it still had traces of dark blue that the last remaining glow of the dead sun casted, but it was fine because it just made the moon that'd been out since seven o’clock brighter and filled with ghostly white. But that wasn't the special guest Jean was introducing Marco to. What he’d been waiting for were the stars.

 

Back in town, most were hidden or hard to see due to busy schedules, lack of interest, too many lights around, or even just clouds, but now they had none of that. The stars were scattered across the enormous sky - framed by Jean's windshield - as if an artist had run their thumb across a paintbrush filled with white paint and splattered it onto the atmosphere. It was still as breathtaking as ever.

 

“The stars… the stickers… the ceiling,” Marco whispered, unable to make real sentences.

 

“Yeah. I know I said the sky wasn't all that, but that was before you reminded me of this place.”

 

“But how could you even forget it?”

 

Jean gawked at the way Marco was taking it in. His whole upper body was stretched out of his seat so his face could be as near as possible to the window without actually having to attach himself to it. His eyes were wide and his breath was forming small puffs of fog against the glass. There was a sliver of a smile on his lips, as if the cold view had taken most of it away before he could finish forming it, and he appeared so absolutely in love with it.

 

Jean tried catching his eye, but failed, “I forgot because the last time I was here was forever ago. I never wanted to bring anyone with me, either.”

 

“How come?”

 

“Because I didn't think they would, uh, appreciate it, I guess. And you know how the others are, they'd just make fun of me or something. Plus, I didn't have enough gas money to be coming here everyday.”

 

Marco sighed, fogging up the window even further, “That's true, it's pretty far from town.”

 

“Says the guy who wanted to go California.”

 

“Says the guy who wouldn't tell me where we were going,” He shot back with a grin.

 

For a lack of better words to say, they fell silent and watched the world above. Jean tried dissolving himself into the seat, feeling the comfort of the starry night not as strong as he had once when he pretended to be running away from home.

 

Instead he stared at the yellow, desolate building that appeared highly out of place from where they sat. The vines climbing up its walls had successfully made its way inside, and the only reason he knew that was because some of it was protruding from a broken piece on the black window. Its color from outside was stained in grim and traces of old vandalism were visible too if he looked hard enough.

 

But as ugly as it looked, there was something about seeing the beauty surrounding it that made Jean's heart tighten. He knew there were parts in life, more than people liked to think about, where our choices broke us down little by little until we were left rotten on the inside and out. And maybe that was ok, maybe even a good thing, to rot until you've become nothing and rebuild yourself into something that you were proud of. Because eventually, that aged building would break down and be replaced by a bed of dirt with blades of grass and invisible life.

 

“So, how’d your mom ever come across Trost?” Jean asked, his jitters were working him up again. He needed more time to collect his thoughts before speaking to Marco about what he really wanted to, “It's not exactly people's first _or_ final choice to settle in.”

 

Marco still had his gaze up to the sky, “Haven't you noticed what kind of place this is?”

 

“You mean the town?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Well no, not really. It's just… home.”

 

He let out an airy laugh, agreeing with him, “I really like it here. It's like a safe haven. Everyone who's ever moved here was running away from something, something they felt that _had_ to be ran away from. Or at least, everyone I've met so far. You were born here, so it makes sense that you didn't quite catch it.”

 

An image of the way Marco's face had been looking for the past week popped into hiss head, “Does that mean you guys were running away from something? That why you moved here?”

 

His brown eyes remained gentle as he spoke, “My mom was running away from the aftermath of a divorce. My auntie was already living here with her family, so her heartache took a big chance, packing us up and moving six hours away from home to be with her sister… to have support.”

 

“I'm sorry - I can't imagine how - it must've been… hard,” Jean poorly ended.

 

“Oh, don't worry about it. We're fine now and that's what I meant about this place. Nobody really judges you and if they do, it's usually just the same old bitter one's as always. It feels like most people here have tasted misfortune and know it comes in different shapes. They never look at you funny for having a gay father or for having a mom and her boyfriend in the sex business or for having a parent unable to raise her kids alone for a year because she was depressed.”

 

_Reiner, Ymir… Marco._

 

Now that he was thinking about it, Jean was finding truth to his words. He knew why the others had moved to Trost, but he never put the pieces together to figure out what Marco had. It was possible that they’d all talked about it before, to find comfort in their own sadness, and it made him feel shitty for thinking his home was nothing but a pimple underneath someone's chin. In his mind, the town had always been somewhere he had to get out of, he had no idea other people saw it as a place to actually want to run to.

 

“You said you came here three times?” Marco asked, breaking his thoughts.

 

“Oh, yeah. Once when I got lost, another time just to get a good look at it again and the last time… I just wasn't in a good mood.”

 

That finally got his attention. Marco tilted his head for him, knowing eyes blazing into his with a touch of enjoyment, “So which is it today, Jean?”

 

_Put me on the spot, why don't you?_

 

He rubbed the back of his head, “I have more than one reason today.”

 

Marco didn't press him on the matter, only fixing his eyes back up to the sky. Behind that admiring face was something he had seen flickering on and off for days, something he didn't recognize up until now. He wasn't sure how he had missed it, since loneliness was something he'd see every time he looked in the mirror, but there it was on Marco's face - as out of place as the decaying diner.

 

“Speaking of moods,” Jean fiddled with his fingers, rubbing the skin on his joints too severely, “you’ve looked upset the past few days. What's been eating you lately?”

 

“Hm? Me?”

 

“Hm. Yeah.”

 

His mouth twisted with indifference, “Oh, nothing really.”

 

“I brought glue with me,” Jean threatened with a lie. It only made Marco laugh.

 

“No, I'm fine. I'm actually pretty excited. Even though it's still far, on Thanksgiving break, me and Micah are going to visit my dad since it's been awhile since we've seen him.”

 

“Oh yeah, I think I've heard the others talking about that before,” That and much more than he was comfortable knowing, “sorry.”

 

“It's ok. Looking at all these stars remind me of the last time we went to Jinae. I was in the passenger seat back then too, trying to give my dad directions to the beach because he said it was better that way, so I didn't really get to view them without being really distracted. I'm happy I am now, so thank you, Jean.”

 

Marco's admiring smile made him squirm, “Yeah, no problem… wait, is that why you asked if I missed my dad? You nervous about meeting yours?”

 

“I'm sorry if I asked you something too personal,” Marco said, choosing only to answer one question without directly answering it.

 

“Don't be sorry.Weren't you the one who kept trying to be my friend?” Jean rhetorically asked in a panic, he was trying not to let his guilt out just yet, but it was hard, “I think that means you're allowed to ask those types of questions.”

 

“You know, since you're bringing it up, I've never had to work this hard to get close to someone?”

 

“Mm, I never noticed,” He was lying through his teeth and they both knew it. And one thing Jean kept wondering about was _why_ he had tried so hard. He once thought it was for revenge, to get close to him then beat him up when his guard was down, but that was proven false long ago.

 

“Yeah, you're one hard nut to crack, Kirstein,” He joked, “which really gets me curious as to why you've brought me here because I get the feeling it wasn't just to show me all of _this_ , although I do appreciate it.”

 

“No, it isn't. And honestly, I hadn't planned on bringing you here either. I just sorta asked you before I could… chicken out.”

 

Marco leaned back against his chair. The small smile on his face was gone and replaced by a concerned frown, “What’re you scared of telling me?”

 

_Everything._

 

“Remember how we were both apologizing for stuff we didn't want the other to know? I think I want you to know now,” He couldn't look anywhere but at the way his fingers played with his brown cotton sweats, “Just give me a sec to figure out how to say it.”

 

_Give me a sec to mentally freak out._

 

“Ok, whenever you're ready.”

 

Jean chewed the inside of his cheek, took in deep breaths without making it too obvious and felt Marco's presence suddenly too strong. With all of his warmth radiating off his body, it made his saint-ness seem more real, “You wanna go outside? Feels a little cramped in here. I think we should go outside.”

 

Not wanting to wait for Marco's answer or see the sympathetic smile he must've had ready, the alarm in his car notified him the door was ajar once he swung it open. He left his music and bravery inside with reluctance. The cold night hit him twice as hard as the one inside the vehicle did, but his shivers weren't from the temperature anymore, they were from fear and it only escalated when he heard Marco's door shut as well.

 

He walked towards the front of his old car and sat down on the hood with his hands inside the pocket of his sweater. The headlights were on, but in a few minutes - god willing the conversation wouldn't last more than an hour - he'd turn them off because he hated leaving the keys in the ignition. The only thing visible through the yellow lights now were the ominous blades of grass and a faraway wire fence as he felt Marco plop himself beside him.

 

With the doors shut behind them, there was no music to fill in their silence - not that he had even been listening to it anymore - but the army of bugs hidden in the grass chirped, buzzed and flapped their wings around them. In a different situation, it'd be something he could close his eyes and listen to, but right now they just seemed to be getting louder and louder, irritating his nerves like nails on a blackboard. They were telling him to rip his hair out and assume the fetal position.

 

“ _È bellissimo_ ,” Marco dreamily whispered, if he had spoken any softer, Jean wouldn't have heard him. His broad shoulders were stiff, holding tension on his neck, but his freckled face was relaxed with a smile and squinty eyes, “It's even better seeing it outside like this.”

 

“Yeah, very pretty.”

 

“I can see why you were afraid of getting eaten out here. The grass needs a haircut.”

 

There was no trace of impatience in his voice and it fueled Jean with both calmness and suspense, “I think we both do, too”

 

“I know,” He snickered, “I can never find the time, though. Maybe I should let it grow out.”

 

“Krista would love that. Remember how she used to braid everyone's hair in eighth grade?”

 

“Oh man, yeah, can't believe I almost forgot. She made so many friends her first day of school just by doing that,” Marco ran a hand through his hair as if he were remembering that day, “We're getting old, aren't we?”

 

Jean scooted further back until his legs dangled off the ground, “Guess so.”

 

“It's pretty cool.”

 

“What? Getting old?”

 

“No. How we've all known each other for such a long time. I think it's the coolest thing because we've watched each other grow up but don't really notice until we stop and think about it.”

 

Jean swallowed, his nervousness came rolling back and he was getting tired of the rollercoaster ride of his emotions, “Yeah, it's cool. Except, Marco, _we_ haven't actually known each other until recently.”

 

“I know - I just… sometimes it doesn't feel that way. Sometimes it feels like we've been friends since… well, since longer than that.”

 

Jean tore his eyes from his black shoes to inspect the sky again. Even with all those lovely stars, he kept his focus on the monstrous clouds that were miles and miles away from them. If they were in a book, and if they'd been any closer, he would've laughed and called it foreshadowing. But he didn't need those symbols to know trouble was already there with them, twirling and teasing the two along with the cold breeze. His very own mouth was enough of a symbol for bad omens.

 

“Hey, do you r-remember anything about your first day of school in Trost?”

 

Marco slipped one of his hands inside his pocket. The other rubbed the back of his wavy hair and growing undercut, “Of course.”

 

“Ok, well, more specifically, do you remember what happened during lunch that day?”

 

Marco bit his lips and stared at him. There was shame in his eyes and traces of shock Jean didn't understand, but when he decided to put an end to his brief hesitation, the bottom of Jean's gut felt like it'd been dunked in ice, “I think I know what you're going to say.”

 

“Wha-How? You do?”

 

“Yeah, and I'm sorry it took me so long to apologize about what happened that day. It's just, I didn't know how to go about it and to be honest, I didn't know if you even cared, but now that you brought--”

 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Jean held up a frozen palm to stop him, “What? _You're_ sorry?”

 

“Yeah, that's what I was going to apologize for last week, but you said to wait. What's wrong?”

 

“No,” Jean hopped off the hood and started pacing, “no, _you_ can't be sorry about that because _I'm_ sorry about that. And about a million other things that came after.”

 

“But-but I am sorry. I threw all my food at you in front of the whole school and embarrassed you… why can't I be sorry?”

 

“Yeah, ok, it was really embarrassing, but how could you even think it was your fault? It was an accident!”

 

“I know it was,” His shoulders dropped and he cringed like if he didn't want to say what he was about to, “but I felt like if I said sorry, then maybe you wouldn't act so uneasy around me. I wanted us to be cool like how we are with the rest of our friends, you know? I thought apologizing was what you wanted to hear, to make you more comfortable around me.”

 

_I am the absolute worst_

 

“You've got it all wrong, I didn't mean to come off that way! There's actually a different reason for why I've been--”

 

“Wait a minute,” Marco wrapped his arms around himself as he thought, “You said you were sorry, too. Why are you allowed to apologize if it was an accident?”

 

He felt his nostrils flare with each step he took, “Because I snapped at you! It was your first day of school and I _threatened_ you knowing it wasn't your fault! Throwing your lunch at me was gross and what-not, but it happened in one second and ended the next, so it was like nothing happened! It really was… nothing.”

 

_Nothing compared to what I did to you._

 

Jean didn’t like the way Marco's face fell into a mixture of surprise and hurt. He didn't know if it was because he'd just heard him yell with real frustration or something else, but when he spoke, he sounded like devastation, “So, this whole time you didn't care that I'd thrown my lunch at you? You didn't think about what I did to you? You avoided me because you really didn't… ? You really didn't like me.”

 

His last sentence wasn't a question. It felt more like an accusation that Jean hadn't been prepared for, “No! That's not it either!”

 

“Then, I don't understand, Jean.”

 

He stopped pacing and stood in front of Marco. His eyes were looking up at him with befuddlement and they were those same puppy eyes that had willed Jean into letting him join him up in the sanctuary he liked to call his bed. Jean wanted to look away from them, but couldn't, not yet.

 

“I'm shit with words, even more with admitting… admitting that I'm wrong and trust me, I've done a lot of wrong. I b-bullied you so much and there were other kids who even joined in after we started avoiding each other. Those stupid names I called you still float around like flies and it's all my fault because I didn't know how to stop the mess I'd made. And I _still_ call you Freckles! Because I never my lesson, but I also wanted to make it look like I didn't care…

 

“I've been hoarding up all this guilt throughout the years, always thinking that I had sabotaged your welcome here - here, a place you think so highly of! - and ruined potential relationships you could've had. That's why I never complained about how you hung out with the others because I felt like you needed them more than I did. You definitely deserve them more now that I know I've been making you feel like… like a bother. I'm sorry about that, too.”

 

“Jean.“

 

“And I want you to know that you're _not_ a bother. You never did anything wrong, not back then and not now, so please stop feeling like I didn't like you. I promise I never felt forced to talk or be with you this whole time. I was just a whimp. I didn't have the face to confront you because I'm full of myself _and_ full of shit for bullying you and then pretending I didn't care.”

 

“Jean… 

 

“I'm sorry, Marco. For a lot. I'm sorry it took so long for me to even say this! Fuck! I feel so… lame, that I couldn't stop being an asshole and I still am. Now I don't know how to stop talking and I don't feel like this is even enough. Jesus, I don't know what I _could_ do to unscar you from all of--”

 

“Jean!” He yelled, finally able to snap him out of it. Marco's hands were up, floating near Jean as if he were thinking about grabbing his shoulders and shaking him, but then he dropped them down on his lap, “You think you bullied me?”

 

The gust of wind blowing through nipped at their faces, but Jean's blood had ran cold the second Marco finished asking that terrifying question, “What… what do you mean _think_?”

 

“Well, I've never really thought of you as a bully. We were kids, Jean. Kids are always being mean to each other. I'll admit, I thought it was a little annoying, but it didn't affect me to the point where I felt afraid or harassed by you.”

 

“B-But what about the other kids?” He searched for hatred in those deep eyes, but found none, “What about the ones who _did_ hurt you? Didn't Mika and Eren have to look out for you?”

 

He shook his head, puzzled by how much Jean wanted to be blamed, “It was never anything serious. They had dealt with bullies - real bullies - before I moved here because of Armin, so they were just being protective. No one hurt me, Jean.”

 

This time, he could feel himself turning green, “I think I need a minute.”

 

He knew he couldn't make it to his side of the car without feeling dizzy, so instead he sat down in between his headlights, crisscrossing his legs a few feet away from Marco on the cold cement and random hairs of grass. His breathing felt ragged thanks to the dry air and the blow of Marco's enlightening words. The guilt in his chest that he had carried for so long began to form into hollowness, undirected anger and mortification.

 

What are you supposed to feel or say or do when you've misunderstood something for _years_ , hating yourself for not being strong enough to clear up the situation and then when you finally do, you find out you were so wrong? He had allowed himself to fester his guilt in a jar and now that it'd been opened, it reeked of delusion and it stung his nose and eyes.

 

“Do you want me to get your drink?” Marco lowly asked. He was standing now, rubbing an arm with uncertainty as his legs remained planted in front of the car. He was worried, and even somewhat discouraged to go anywhere near him.

 

Jean propped his elbows on his knees, holding the sides of his forehead with frigid palms to calm himself, “You're not the tiniest bit angry with me, are you?”

 

He was quiet for a second, “I'm sorry, no.”

 

“You're sorry?” He humorlessly chuckled, “God, you're great.”

 

“Are you - are you mad at me?”

 

“No! I don't know. Maybe I'm mad that _you're_ not mad. How do you not hate me? I really don't get it and it's pissing me off,” He rubbed his eyes with excessive force and asked himself, “Has everything I felt been a waste? Did I seriously spend all this time…? Fuck!”

 

He could hear Marco's feet moving until he was sitting in front of him. He was quiet for a while, unsure of what would set him off or cool him down before he took a chance and carefully said, “I'm not going to say I forgive you.”

 

“So you _are_ mad?” Jean snapped his head up with what must've looked like badly placed hope.

 

“No, I'm not,” He reassured, then kindly added, “I'm not going to say I forgive you because it kind of feels like this doesn't actually have a lot to do with _me_. I think you need to forgive yourself for being someone you thought you were. You're not a bad person and you're not full of crap, either. You’ve proven that by just being yourself. And besides, I already forgave you - since last week when you apologized before actually telling me what you did.”

 

“That didn't count, Marco!” He groaned.

 

“To me it did. You were high and you were still thinking about what you've done. People… people like me usually smoke to forget the bad stuff and think about happier things. So, that's all the proof I needed to know that you really were sorry and meant it.”

 

Jean looked up at the boy, the accepting-you-without-any-hesitations boy that harmonized so perfectly with the radiant stars. He was smiling down at him, but what he thought was sympathy all this time might’ve been something else. It looked more as if he were trying to say “it's ok, I understand that you need time”, and boy did he need time.

 

He knew he didn't deserve to have such an understanding friend, and to make up for his past, he'll allow his own emotions to cage him like a prisoner until he felt it was time to let go. For now, he still wanted to wallow in self-pity before he'd forgiven himself like how Marco said he needed to do.

 

After a couple of minutes of silence, Jean felt relaxed enough to speak without yelling again. He looked at Marco and at the way they were sitting across from one another, tucked in the middle of the two headlights, surrounded by light but buried in darkness. The rain scented wind was picking up and it twirled Marco's dark hair around his kind features, ruffling it the way Jean liked to do.

 

He ripped out a thread of grass and wrapped it around his still shaking finger, “I'm sorry I was an asshole to you and avoided you like the plague.”

 

“It's ok, I avoided you too, remember? I'm also sorry about that. I always thought it was best for us to remain that way, to not cause any problems for everyone since I didn’t know what kind of person you were and I really regret it.”

 

“You do?”

 

“Yeah, it feels like I wasted a lot of good time. I should’ve spoken to you sooner.”

 

Jean looked down, “What made you want to speak to me in the first place?”

 

“‘M not sure. I think it was because we finally had classes together. It was a good opportunity to make the group whole,” He paused, thought for a second, then continued, “But I'm still lost about something. If you've always thought I wasn't to blame for what happened when we were kids and you never hated me, then why were you mean to me?”

 

“Oh, well that's because I had--” He abruptly stopped, face draining and twisting to a scowl at what he was about to say.

 

_A big crush on you? Was I really about to admit that? How did I forget that major fucking detail?_

 

“Jean?” Marco leaned in a little closer and he was glad he couldn't read minds, “You had what?”

 

“I had … I had … issues, yeah, that's it. I had _jealously_ issues. You were always so… so skinny and you know I was chubby back then. Nobody really made fun of me for it but I didn't like it - and then - and you - so I was mad that you were skinny and taller than me. And I couldn't help my feelings when I saw you.”

 

_Smooth, Jean, smooth. At least that last part was true._

 

“But you didn't hate me?” Marco tried clarifying.

 

“No, I didn't hate you. I was just a dickhead.”

 

“Oh, ok. I don't really get it.”

 

Jean rubbed the back of his neck, “I know, me neither.”

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing, just-just know I used to be a jerk and still am and forever will be. And there's little to nothing that I can do about it so if you still want to be hang out, you'll have to put up with it like the rest do and I'm sorry.”

 

Marco laughed with a shake of his head, laying his brown eyes on at him with feelings he couldn't quite pinpoint. But with just those little gestures of his, Jean was able to subdue some of the tension and awkwardness he felt. He was thankful for that ambiance Marco always carried with him, “I don't think of it as ‘putting up with you’. Of course I'd still want to hang out, you're fun to be around with.”

 

Jean started playing with his grass again, “Oh yeah?”

 

“Yeah, but do _you_ still want to be _my_ friend?”

 

He felt heat creeping up his cold ears, “D-Duh, that's why I brought you here. That's why we talked. And why'd you have to ask so bluntly? Only kids ask that sort of thing. Kids and drunk people.”

 

“Well, since we missed our chance all those years ago, I think it's ok that I asked now, right?”

 

“Right,” Jean agreed, knowing where Marco was headed.

 

“So… ?”

 

“So what?”

 

“So say it.”

 

“Say what?”

 

“Say that we're friends.”

 

“Do I have to?”

 

“Yes, you made me say dick, so now you have to say this… please,” He wrinkled his thick brows and crossed his arms, trying to look stern and tough, but Jean still thought he really _really_ wasn't good at it. He quickly wondered how Marco would be able to discipline his future five children with a nice face like that.

 

"Fine," Jean smiled, throwing the grass back to its family. A deep roll of thunder decided to invade their privacy right then and Jean took advantage of the loudness to say what Marco wanted to hear. He threw his hands out to the sides and shrugged in surrender, “Alright, we're friends! Jean Kirstein and Marco Bott are still friends and they're so damn lame, I swear!”

 

“Didn't I tell you lame-o’s come in pairs?” He yelled back, cautiously looking up at the sky. Almost instantly fat drops of water started pouring down on them with what seemed like confirmation that they indeed were lame.

 

In just a few seconds they were already dripping wet, and without having to say a thing, they shot up together from the dirty ground and ran for the car. He heard Marco bang his leg against the headlight, but somehow he'd managed to make it inside before Jean even opened the driver's side door.

 

Once he was safely inside, he started feeling the icy water soaking through his sweater and even through his pajama shirt, luckily he had left his phone beside him in the cup holders where he always did. The brown sweats he'd decided not to change out of were clinging to his skin and they smelled like damp Earth with some of it smeared on his exposed ankles. He felt gross and heavy and _freezing_ , but more than anything he felt completely bewildered by how Marco was red-faced and rocking with breathless laughter beside him.

 

He didn't know what to make of it, but it was contagious and he soon found himself joining, not knowing why they were in hysterics and Marco probably didn't know either. They cracked up for no reason when Jean brought his car back to life, when they were back on the road and even more when he turned on the obnoxious heater. It'd been a weird day for them and laughing it off was all they could do to make their heads stop spinning.

 

But Jean found that in the end, he didn't mind that his feelings had been taken out for a ride. Since the first day they started talking, Marco had somehow found his emotions hidden in a black corner. He imagined the boy putting his hands on his hips and tapping his foot, saying “No, this won't do” and carefully putting them in his arms. He imagined him hand washing his emotions, taking his time with Patience and being extra cautious with Fear, then gathering them all up and drying them outside with warm sunlight and a cool breeze. Because that's what Marco was, the comfort of the sun and the hush of a caressing breeze.

 

Marco made him feel like dusted off and refreshed laundry, but he was well aware that Remorse was still stubbornly hiding, choosing to remain in filth. That was something he'd have to clean up for himself, but right now, as they sped home to a town he once thought of in a simple way, he knew he was going to be just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to chill with the word count, holy shit


	14. Shimmering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know that rubix cube Marco's been staring at? Well, he's gone and picked it up now. Mm, mm, mm.

Marco's head pounded in sync with his heart. The blood coursing through his pained ears sounded like a river and the sweat coming off of his pores made him feel like he'd been floating in one. And yet, as much as he was perspiring, there were chills running down his back, causing goosebumps to rise on his legs and arms and his comforter did nothing to help with his current predicament.

 

His eyes had been clenched tight, not knowing what time it was, but he reluctantly opened one to find darkness. The windows were closed, blinds down and curtains drawn, which was unusual for him to have his view completely shut off that way. The only explanation he could come up for it was that his mother had visited his room once again. She’d probably be making her way down his room any minute now, because like how every parent knew when their kids were up, sometimes kids had that very same instinct about them.

 

And before she could barge in, he was going to have to put some clothes on - unless he wanted another earful of her scolding - and with the way his ears were hurting, he didn't.

 

Marco has only been sick for two days, feeling it rise on Sunday and then getting taken over by it on Monday, but it felt like it's been weeks. He's slept such a large amount of time, he had no idea if it was Tuesday morning or night and his eyes had stung from his phone’s light the last time he had tried to check the time, so naturally, he turned it off and now it was somewhere lost in bed. Next time, he promised himself, he'd be more careful with his alarm clock.

 

As his throbbing ears listened for footsteps, his arms roamed the bed for missing clothes. The parts of his mattress that weren't warmed by his body stung like ice on his overly sensitive skin and it caused him enough discomfort to quit searching. He began curling himself into a ball, trembling as he retracted his limbs like a scared turtle, but on its way up, his bruised up knee found a sock. Unfortunately it was a wasted victory, seeing as how his mother could be heard making her way to his room.

 

Even though it hurt to move, Marco forced his aching muscles to put some effort into putting on that damned sock. He had to swallow down a moan as his sore abdominals and battered kneecap heaved forward. His plan was to stick that foot out so his mother could think he was wearing pajamas, but her movements were quicker than his and he had to abort the mission when she started jiggling the doorknob.

 

In the amount of time she took to open the door, he had already flung himself into a sleeping position and remained still. She quietly made her way inside, allowing the hallway’s light to seep through his black room. He continued to play possum even though he knew that _she_ knew he was faking it. Still, her movements were gentle when she sat on his bed, and by the scent of her clothing, he figured out it was morning and extremely early.

 

He felt one of her small hands come over his blanketed shoulder and soothingly go up and down his arm as his body remained in fetal position with his back facing her. After a while, he began to wonder if he had successfully tricked her into believing he was asleep.

 

Until that comforting hand he'd thought was massaging him pulled down the sheets to reveal half his bare chest.

 

“Marco!” She exclaimed in surprise, she lowered her voice at his visible grimace but continued speaking, “Again? What did I tell you about sleeping naked last night? Do you want to remain sick for the rest of your life?”

 

“‘M sorry. I don't really remember doing it,” And that was the truth. He sluggishly faced her, resting his back against the quickly cooled down mattress. A part of him wanted to say he _did_ have half a sock on, but that'd only bother her more since she wouldn't see it as a victory like him.

 

“Oh, and yet you always remember to not listen to me, don't you? I don't know how many times I have to remind you of your distant cousin with pneumonia,” She tucked the covers back where they’d been and swiftly checked his moist forehead. The concern in her dark eyes didn't match her tone and it made him feel worse, “At least your temperature is lower than yesterday's.”

 

“It is?”

 

“Yes,” She eyed him, “Where did you say you went with Jean?”

 

He looked away from her dubiety to stare at his ceiling. The answer to her question was metaphorically right above them, but he had lied to her that night after coming home so late with a lame excuse - telling her the truth would've been equivalent to petting a dog while they're eating. He felt terrible for keeping it from her, but she was a tough lover, just like his father, and it was because of that that he'd rather keep this white little lie.

 

“Just out at the nature trail, the one around Eren's neighborhood. Remember? I-I think I mentioned it.”

 

She pursed her lips, “I only remember you telling me you were going to be at his house.”

 

“We changed our minds, sorry.”

 

She shook her head to say it didn't matter anymore and pulled out a pack of pills from her navy vest pocket. With the thick checkered shirt she was wearing underneath, it made her look like a lumberjack, “You finished the Dayquil yesterday, and we only have the nighttime one, so take it only if you really start feeling bad. On my way home I'll buy better ones.”

 

“Alright,” He croaked.

 

“Alright. Oh! You haven't been using your phone, have you?”

 

“No, I turned it off for a while. Do you need me to keep it on?”

 

“Well, some of your friends have been texting me,” She said, placing the pills next to his pillow, “They want to know if they can come for a visit.”

 

“Can they?”

 

She smiled and stood up, her hair was pulled back into that tight bun she always wore for work, “ _Certo_. I told them they might get sick, too, but that did nothing to change their minds. You kids can be very easy to read sometimes.”

 

Marco tried laughing, but only air came out. He understood what she meant and she was probably right. He had a hunch that at least one of them would try to come and catch a portion of his flu just so they wouldn't have to go to school, “Don't worry, I'll make sure they leave as healthy as they came.”

 

“Make sure you put on some clothes first,” She sighed, then searched for his missing alarm clock on his nightstand. The only thing she found were three unfinished bottles of water, each at different levels, “Marco, where is your clock?”

 

He sunk deeper into his bed, “Broke it again.”

 

She clicked her tongue and frowned, but she wasn't angry, more like she was upset about not guessing such an obvious answer, “Ok, well, I'm heading out now. Call me or Auntie if you start feeling worse.”

 

“I will, drive safe.”

 

The light behind her casted shadows on her face that aged her past thirty-eight and it reminded him of what he'd spoken to Jean about. Time really was catching up to them and he didn't like seeing its visible form on his hard working mother.

 

She walked to him and placed a light kiss on his hot head, then hurried out and shut the door behind her. Marco heard her childlike footsteps move downstairs, making their way passed the hallway and then into the kitchen. Even from up in his room, he could hear glass clinking against the counters, the fridge opening and closing, the hissing of boiling water in the kettle and finally the cozy smell of her morning coffee.

 

He stared at his door and at the way the hallway light peaked from underneath, but after a rattle of his mother's keys coming off the key holder, they were switched off and she was gone. Marco continued to stare, though, at the same spot now in the darkness.

 

Confessing to Jean about their reason for moving to Trost had brought on a plethora of old emotions he'd already left behind and accepted, along with memories that still wonderfully pained him. They were ancient wounds that every once in a blue moon would grab hold of him and force him to drown into all those years ago.

 

They wanted him to remember how frightening it had been to see his once weak mother practically crying the entire drive from Jinae to Trost. Her sobs had been uncontrollable hiccups, like the kind children made after receiving horrible spankings, and she had kept repeating, _“God, what am I going to do?”_ over and over like a broken record.

 

And she _had_ been broken. Marco had understand that even though his eleven year old self had been acutely aware of what'd been happening to his family in such a short amount of time, and all he could do to offer comfort was patting her on the shoulder as the three of them sat squished together in their old and battered two-door truck. Micah had only been five at that time, so he had cried along with his mom to show her she wasn't alone because he felt it was the right thing to do.

 

His wounds also wanted him to remember their arrival at the new town and how it had been completely different from Jinae, so much so that it had got him questioning if they were even in the same state. There’d been no bright palm trees - fake or otherwise - no bunches of colorful neighborhoods, no pedestrians with sunburns or a sunny sky to match. Everything had appeared so… bland.

 

Rather than palm trees, he'd received an ocean of pines, hickory, sugarberry and more that all looked exactly the same. Rather than bunches of friendly neighborhoods, he got vacant sidewalks that were filled with signs nailed to the trees, some saying _PEACHES_ , _HONEY_ , _FIREWOOD_ , or _STRAWBERRIES_ but nowhere that lead to a store, only houses. And rather than a sunny sky, that day had been cloudy, dark and depressing.

 

After another half-hour of driving, he had been relieved to find that there were more houses around where they'd be residing than when they first entered town. There had even been a shopping area he could walk to like in his old house, but the dramatic changes in which he'd been thrown into hadn't allowed his spirit to get excited over something so trivial.

 

How could he when his mother hadn't seemed to even care about the change in environment? Only about getting to his cousin's house, and once they got there, there’d been even more tears - tears of joy for reuniting and tears of sadness for the reason. Mina had pulled Micah and himself into her room to play dolls while the grownups talked. Her big brother had been old enough to stay and quietly listen and it'd been nice of him to let Marco know some of the things they'd discussed, like how he'd be going to school the day after next and that they'd all be living together for a while. His mother had confirmed that the next morning when they were placing their belongings into his uncle's old office.

 

Ever since he was a child, Marco always obeyed his parents. Now that he only had his mother, that still didn't change. If anything, he tried doing better. So even though he had wanted to bawl his eyes out that day because of how confused and broken hearted he'd felt, he listened to her and told himself to first get through the end of the school year since there weren't many weeks left anyways. That had proven to be a lot more difficult than he thought.

 

The night before first going to Sina Elementary, he hadn't been able to sleep. He had laid next to Micah's drooling face, knowing his mother wasn't laying on the other side like how they'd originally been placed. Not only had the lack off her body been obvious, but the two hushed voices easy to find in the silence had been as clear as water. Marco had tried counting the freckles on his brother's face, to go to sleep and not butt in their conversation, when he heard the mention of his father's name.

 

“But I still don't understand why Anthony would do this. It just doesn't make any sense and it gets me so… “ He had heard his aunt softly fume.

 

When his mother spoke, he knew she'd been crying again, “I know, and h-he didn't want to give me an explanation. Idella, what am I going to do? I've never worked a day in my life, I don't have a lot of money, and I didn't even finish school. I can't-I can't do _anything_.”

 

“It's a shame you weren't legally married, then you could've taken everything and left him out on the streets like the _feccia_ he is.”

 

“Please, don't call him trash. And you know I could never do that to him, especially since my boys… _Gesù_ , what am I supposed to tell them?”

 

“You tell them the truth is what you do!” His mother had had to hush her before Auntie could more calmly start again, “You explain the best you can, ok? They're already crying, now let them better understand _why_ they’re crying and why their Mama is crying.”

 

“But they're just kids--”

 

“And kids are great observers. They see everything, and they might not be able to put much into words, but they know, they _sense_. You better believe Marco knows, he's almost a teenager! It's such a horrible time for that _cazzo di merda_ to decide he wanted to be alone. The boy will need a father once his body starts changing and since he's a little different… “ There'd been a long pause and a creak of a chair, “But it'll be alright, Camie, you came because you know you're not alone. Remember what _Papà_ used to say: ‘Family who don't help each other out during times of need are no family at all.’”

 

His mother hadn't responded with words, only with choked sobs that had tried to escape her mouth. The house had become eerily quiet in those few minutes she wept, so quiet that he'd been sure they had heard his strained breathing from where he'd been laying. But three minutes seemed to be the limit his aunt could remain silent.

 

“If you want, I could get Bailey and the boys to go _talk_ to him.”

 

Her offer had stumbled him, but for some reason his mother had laughed in between a hiccup, “Idella, no. We're not in our early twenties anymore.”

 

Every night after that had been the same. They would talk in the kitchen, whispering to each other and sometimes cry together. His aunt would try to calm her down most nights, but when she couldn't - especially after his dad had called to ask if he could take them for the summer - he would hear them shuffling to the living room sofa where he imagined they were holding one another in sibling understanding. It was a secret that he had listened to all of their conversations, and to this day, he still carried it with him.

 

_It's ok, we're fine now. We're fine._

 

Marco blinked his dried eyes, wondering how to momentarily avoid these old thoughts from continuing in his muddled brain. He shifted his position back into a ball, allowing his half-on sock to slide off before he felt the pills that'd been left near his pillow. With a pounding head, he sat up to fetch one of his bottles and opened it, ripped off the foil on his pills and swallowed down the medicine. He fell asleep in under five minutes.

 

\--------------------------

 

“Is he alive?”

 

“Can't you see him breathing?”

 

“It's twelve in the afternoon, he should be awake!”

 

“Be quiet, you're too loud.”

 

“But--!”

 

“It looks like he took some medicine. That's probably why he hasn't woken up yet.”

 

“Oh? How do you know he took medicine?”

 

“Because look.”

 

“Oh, I didn't see that. You've got good eyes there, Detective.”

 

“No, they're normal. You're just oblivious to your surroundings. Anyway, I think we should go since he's still resting.”

 

“Wait! No, just let me sniff him or something first… What's with that look? I'm trying to get sick here, not anything weird. Gross, he's a _man_ , you know.”

 

“Why are you even trying to get yourself sick? You already have no problem skipping class for no reason.”

 

“Yeah, but with this I'll be able to excuse my absences. And who are you to talk? You're skipping, too.”

 

“I had a dentist appointment and got checked out. If I'd known you'd be sniffing people, I never would've agreed to giving you a ride here.”

 

“Welp, can't do nothing about it now! I'll be quick so stay put… hm, I guess the best way to catch some germs would be to inhale straight from the source, right?”

 

“You're gross.”

 

“Thought so, I knew I was right.”

 

“Hurry up.”

 

“Ok, ok, here I go.”

 

The sound of the bed creaking, along with the muffled voices, woke Marco up. His entire head already felt awfully hot and body fuzzy like if he'd been stuffed with a thousand itchy blankets. He could imagine a tiny buff man sitting on the bridge of his nose as he tried to take in a deep breath, happy he didn't have watery snot, but having his sinuses swollen and dry was just as obnoxious.

 

He cracked open his eyes, only to find a pair of nostrils that'd frozen an inch away from his face. There were dark brown eyes staring back at him in shock and revulsion, and freckles he at first thought were his, but then he remembered he wasn't a girl and the only mirror in his bedroom was attached to his wall on the other side of the room. He knew he should've been scared for his life that somehow people had entered his home while he'd been passed out, but he was too sick to care about the intruders.

 

_Ok, this one's Ymir and the other voice…_

 

Off to the side, he saw Annie standing cross armed and amused at her friends current situation, but Marco was wondering - in his half sleep, half awake mind - if the pills he'd taken were making him hallucinate. Because if he didn't know any better, which he didn't, he'd guess Ymir had been trying to kiss him and that was about as natural as a cabbage patch producing kids.

 

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my _god_!” Ymir gasped as she flew backyards and clutched her chest. That made his theory of a hallucination seem more possible. Ymir was never afraid of anything and rarely ever said god as much as she just did.

 

He attempted to speak, but his mind was working faster than his mouth and all that came out was slurred gibberish.

 

“He scared the shit out of me! Only you would wake up without making any noises, Marco!”

 

Annie glared at her, “Quit yelling, you're making my head hurt and I'm not even sick. It's your own fault for trying to do something so gross in the first place.”

 

“It's not gross! People sniff each other all the time. I'm willing to bet my left nut you'd love to do it to--”

 

“Shhhhut _up_.”

 

“Then stop telling me to shut _up_.”

 

“I've only said it once,” Annie growled.

 

“No you haven't, you said it when we first got here and like a minute ago.”

 

“I said ‘be quiet’, not shut up. So shut up, you're making things complicated.”

 

“Gah! Look, you said it again!”

 

Marco allowed them to bicker while he took in his surroundings. He was still home and still in bed, still sick and still naked. His room was still dark, but not pitch black like earlier, there was enough light to know it was sunny outside. If it was all a hallucination, it wasn't a very creative one because the only bizarre thing around him were the two girls dressed in thick winter apparel fighting with one another.

 

“Um, Annie?” Marco managed to dryly speak, he had an idea of how to confirm if this was or wasn't reality and the medicine he had taken earlier made him numb to all the warning signs telling him not to say what he was about to say.

 

“I know, she's getting on my nerves, too.”

 

“Hey!”

 

“No, I was just wondering… “

 

“... What?” She cautiously asked, staring at a ticked off Ymir and then back at him as he slid down the covers to expose half his chest.

 

“Does my nipple remind you of anything?” He asked, completely serious, and then he knew he wasn't tripping out because she remained level headed and didn't skip a beat to answer his question. rather than screaming like a banshee like he thought she would.

 

“Yes, actually it does. It reminds me of how big of a lesbian I am. Thanks for that.”

 

He was grateful to the heavens up above that his face was already flushed from his high temperature so they wouldn't notice how incredibly stupid he felt. With a touch of shame, he covered himself back up and cleared his throat. It seemed as though his humiliation reached its way to Ymir, her face was just as red as her beanie.

 

“What are you on?! What the hell, Marco? You can't just wake up and ask someone that kind of question!” She accused, pointing a long finger at him while she defended the girl she'd been secretly making faces at not even a second ago.

 

Her screaming began to make his head pound with heaviness, but he still felt like his mind was floating off somewhere in the clouds, “I'm sorry, I just had to make sure you guys were really here.”

 

“How much medicine have you taken?” Annie asked, taking a seat on his bean bag chair. He will always envy how stoic and collected she was with any situation she had to deal with. Her ability to quickly respond, adapt and get over things worked well in boxing _and_ in life, which she excelled in both.

 

Ymir shot her an incredulous look with her mouth hanging open, in disbelief that she didn't get angry for asking a rude question when Annie had scolded her just for talking loudly. But then she shrugged and threw herself on top of his bed. If Annie didn't care, then she sure as hell wouldn't either.

 

“Not a lot,” He answered, wrapping himself up tight as he made space for his freckled opposite. She didn't ask if she could get under the covers and he wasn't about to offer. He found himself regretting, for the second time today, not putting on any clothes when his mom first told him to, “But, uh, just out of curiosity, how did you guys get in here?”

 

“Through the front door,” Ymir replied, flicking him on the ear as if that answer explained everything.

 

“I know, but it was locked… wasn't it?”

 

“Oh yeah, well, we _were_ going to break in, but then Annie had a better idea.”

 

It frightened him how casual they looked admitting that or for even thinking that was an option in the first place, “You weren't going to blow up the house, were you? I mean, our doorbell works just fine.”

 

Annie spoke this time, “We didn't want to bother you, and I figured you guys kept a spare key around somewhere, since you seem like the type who would. And you did.”

 

“Oh,” He blinked, "I forgot we still even had...”

 

“I put them back where I found them, but you should change your hiding spot. Your neighbors probably saw us and can come steal all of your things whenever you're not home.”

 

“Right, ok. Thank you,” He smiled at her, thinking how this girl was on a different level, “Oh, wait. What time is it? Is school over?”

 

“Ehh,” Ymir scooted closer, “School, shmool. I'm playing hooky today.”

 

“It's a quarter til one and I actually came for a reason.”

 

Marco scooted farther, “What's up?”

 

“The old men are coming back in a week and half, but you can come over the gym whenever you want… if you ever get better. You look like shit.”

 

Ymir placed a frigid hand over his face. It felt nice but he was on to her intentions now, “Actually, this is an improvement. You should've seen ‘im on Monday morning. Poor kid looked like he was about to pass out in the school's parking lot. He came to school with the flu and thanks to _Armin_ , he made him leave right then and no one got infected.”

 

Marco wiggled free from her hand, “Trust me Ymir, you don't want this. Everything hurts and you'll miss work.”

 

She frowned and rolled away, “Figures you'd be selfish and keep it all to yourself. At least I got a good whiff off of you, so my job here is done.”

 

_So that's what she was trying to do. That makes a lot more sense._

 

“So is mine,” Annie stared at him while thinking something over, “But before we go, have you been checking your phone?”

 

“No, it's off, why?”

 

She paused, “No reason. Let's go, Ymir.”

 

“But I literally just got comfortable.”

 

“Fine, you can walk home.”

 

Marco watched as her blurred body jumped out with amazing speed. Annie wasn't a kidder, so when she said she was going to do something, there was a guarantee she meant it one-hundred percent. They'd all learned that thanks to Reiner and Bertholdt, but it didn't stop them from getting whiplash once they figured out just how serious she was to her words. Marco once ended up with a dislocated arm during a spar when she warned he shouldn't hold back because she didn't intend to either.

 

Annie gave him a nod, telling him in her own way to get better, then left. Ymir had been right at her heels, but then paused and turned back to him, “Do you need anything before we leave, or are ya good?”

 

“I'm good,” He softened, knowing this rebellious girl came to get sick, but also because she cared about him and was too awkward to know how to show it.

 

She squinted her almond eyes as a big smile popped on her face, and with a crinkle of her gray jacket, she gave him a weak salut, “‘Kay, get better titty pervert.”

 

“I am not a--” _pillow pervert_ “--I am not a pervert!”

 

“So touchy. Sickness changed you,” She snorted, but the sound of Annie’s engine roaring quickly stopped her mid-snort, “Shit, gotta go, see ya!”

 

She slammed his door before he could get out a goodbye. The sound of her feet echoed in his head, throughout the house and probably all the way to the neighbors house. Already anticipating the slam of the front door, he scrunched up his face until she'd done just that. He could hear more of their banter from outside until there was only the sound of the car door closing and Annie’s truck driving away. As soon he was positive they were gone, he scrambled for his clothes hidden somewhere underneath the blanket, and with the pace of a sloth, got out of bed.

 

He instantly started shivering, unable to stop even if he tried, but unless he wanted more people to sneak into his home, _someone_ had to relock the front door. As he slipped on his sweatpants - without worrying about underwear - he felt immense pressure on his temples. Shrugging on a shirt irritated his cold torso and he could feel the walls of his esophagus unsticking to itself as he swallowed the little bit of saliva his mouth contained while he shoved on his socks.

 

He decided to drape his comforter around his body, and when he was satisfied with the small amount that dragged onto the floor, he wobbled himself all the way to the kitchen, already forgetting what he needed to do as his stomach reminded him of a basic human need.

 

His eyes had to readjust to the brightness of the room. The sunlight was piercing through their wide rectangular window in front of the sink and its rays bounced off of the glass on the counter half filled with Micah's milk. The light blue walls painted on their kitchen were kind to his vision, but the shiny white tiles and picture frames weren't. He had to squint his eyes as he scurried to the stove. There was a big pot of lentil soup with pasta shells his mom had prepared when she came home from work yesterday and saw his ill face. He hadn’t been hungry then, but now the soup was calling out to him with the promise he'd start getting better soon, and as he turned it on to boil, he emptily stared into space with nothing but static in his burnt out mind.

 

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this sick, but it was well deserved, and he should've seen it coming anyways. His sickness was a cocktail mix from the icy rain on Saturday, having his windows down and from leaving the warmth of a building to the cold weather more times than he could count - specifically at work.

 

But he had no regrets. He still couldn't believe what'd happened over the weekend. His overworked heart had been racing from the minute they'd left Jean's house up until he was back at his own. There'd been so much to process but he didn't get to because of the ambush on his immune system. Now that he was alone with nothing but time, he was able to carelessly sort out his feelings.

 

“Jean was so… “ Marco said aloud and to himself as he swung a free hand to find the right word, “... so amazing. Yeah. And something else… something like cool?”

 

Awe was all he could sum up at the moment. Little snippets of that day played in his fever mind as he stood there in rags and shivers. He freshly remembers Jean's hair, the way he hadn't bothered to fix it from laying down all day and comfortable enough around him to keep it that way. He could almost smell those burgers Jean had bought at the gas station, telling him he'd think about the taste every time he got hungry after he’d pumped gas, and he'd been right - despite the fact that they'd almost made him throw up.

 

The way the sun had brightened up his face and eyes, those sharp and shimmering eyes, still burned in the back of Marco's mind. He'd even kept mental snapshots of the way Jean had narrated his ant story with nostalgia and happiness in his body language. God, happiness looked so fine on him. One thing Marco wished he _could_ forget was the way Jean had turned to him as he recklessly drove, giving him a sly smile before telling him to say… penis!

 

It was true, he did like _those body parts_ , and when he used the restroom, he did pull _that_ out, but hearing those suggestive remarks coming out of someone who loved to scowl and who was just so.. so.. _amazing_ flustered him beyond belief. It was fine, though, because he had been able to make Jean feel the same turmoil when he finally admitted how he'd poked his breast in a drunken stupor.

 

Marco giggled as the soup began to simmer, “I still can't believe he took me there… and that I was the first person he chose to show it to. If I had the time and money, I'd take us there whenever he wanted. Or maybe he wouldn't want that since that's where we fought.”

 

 _No, it wasn’t really a fight. But he did scream at me… but it wasn't really_ at _me. More like to his past self. Huh. Who knew, after all this time, that Jean was such a thoughtful person? He really knows how to make it look the other way around._

 

Marco realized that's where most of his admiration landed. Who else was capable of willingly hanging out with someone who reminded them of something bad they'd done? Who else put up with those belittling feelings around them just to continue being friends with someone? The answer was most likely many, but Marco still thought he was brave and amazing for it.

 

Although in many ways he felt guilty for trying so hard to be part of Jean's life for his own selfish reasons, there was no going back now even if he wanted to - and he didn't - so all he could do was be more thoughtful to the time Jean needed, not that it bothered him. He had a feeling they were going to be friends for a long time... the word _friends_ suddenly didn't feel strong enough for his liking.

 

“Oh, I know,” He smiled to himself, lids half closing. He felt high, “The perfect word is _best_ frie--ouchie!”

 

The thick boiling soup splattered droplets onto his neck, catching his hazy and wandering mind. With new goosebumps on his arms, he reached for a bowl in the cupboard and served himself a healthy portion. The smell of his mother's love surrounded the kitchen and it made him feel less distressed about being home alone. He dragged himself to their wooden dinner table and slowly took a seat. His bruised up knee continued to protest against any and all movements, and while he waited for his food to cool down, he continued daydreaming.

 

\--------------------

 

“Marco,” A familiar voice called out to him, breaking at the last syllable in his name. His closed eyes felt the burn of the lights turning on, “Marco, wake up. It's about to be five.”

 

“Mph.”

 

A hand rested on his shoulder and weakly shook him, “C’mon, mom says you have to get up or else you won't be able to sleep at night.”

 

“Ten more mm.”

 

“One more,” Micah warned. His body rocked as his brother got comfortable on the foot of the bed, “Hey, wanna hear a joke?”

 

“Mn?”

 

“Alright, so a blond, a brunet and a… crap, I dunno the color of… Ok, ok. So a blond, a brunet and a beige head walk into our house. Then they leave because you were still sleeping. The end.”

 

Marco snickered and rolled onto his back, rubbing his sleepy eyes as his brother smiled down at him as if he'd just said the wittiest joke ever, “Did anybody actually come by?”

 

“Yeah, it was Armin, his boyfriend and that weird guy.”

 

“Armin's what? Are you talking about Eren?”

 

He nodded as he yanked a loose string from his shirt, one that used to belong to Marco years ago, “Yep, that guy. Are they not a thing?”

 

“No, they're not. They're just really, really close,” Marco clarified, getting out of bed to stretch some of his soreness away. Micah gave him a look of disbelief.

 

“Are you kidding me? Friends don't give each other smooch-eyes.”

 

“What is that?”

 

“Come on, you know. It's when you can't stop staring at someone you like. You do it all the time to the sports store when we drive passed it.” 

 

He laughed and searched for the socks he'd kicked off during sleep, he'd been obedient enough to keep his shirt and pants on, “Since when did you become such an expert on human behavior?”

 

“I'm thirteen, Marco, I know more than just _that_. In health class today, they taught us that girls pee blood - _blood_ , Marco! Once every month! They showed us diagrams and everything!”

 

Marco grabbed a hoodie that'd been abandoned on the floor from a week ago and lifted a brow at him, there was a playful grin on his dry lips as he asked, “Do you make smooch-eyes at the girls during class? Because some of the things you said are a little off.“

 

His face flushed, “Wha--I don't--I mean, I do! I always pay attention!” He sat up and ran for the door, “Mom made dinner so hurry up!”

 

“Wait, who was the weird guy who came?” He called out, struggling to keep up with his pace after flickering the bedroom lights off.

 

His head felt so much better after sleeping all day again and Micah was probably right. He was sure he really would struggle to sleep tonight, and he'd probably be late for school, but to school he'd definitely go. He didn't want to get left behind in his studies and he missed his friends.

 

When they made it downstairs, their mother's music could be heard playing from the kitchen, and all the lights in the house were on. The TV in the living room could be heard casting reruns of _The Ultimate Fighter_ with Micah's homework probably scattered all over the coffee table. The lamp they kept in the corner illuminated the room with a warm tint of yellow-orange that'd been greatly needed because of the growing darkness outside.

 

He couldn't see the dining room, but he already knew the chandelier was on at the brightest notch possible. He chuckled at the way Micah and his mom's shoes were left neatly near the entrance as they walked down the hallway, but their coats and sweaters had been lazily draped over the wooden staircase railing with a vest and a pair of green mitts on the floor.

 

Marco inhaled the aroma his mother had cooked and decided he really loved it better this way, with noise and a mess everywhere - just little things to show he wasn't alone.

 

“You know, that weird guy,” Micah finally answered as they entered the kitchen, “The one who gets barked at when he runs. Well, you can't see him anymore ‘cause you work now, but me and uncle Bailey see him when he takes me to class.”

 

“Jean?” He perked up, “Jean came?”

 

“Yeah! Yeah, him! I forgot his name since he's only been here once. Dude, he looked so--”

 

He was cut off by their mother, not that Micah really cared. His eyes had caught the unprotected and nicely cooked meat on the stove and he snuck his way over to pick at it while Marco was attacked with hands on his face, “ _Come ti senti_?”

 

“Hey mom, I feel a lot better. Still cold and sore, but better.”

 

_What did he look like? Scared again?_

 

“Well, your fever seems to be down for now. Make sure you eat a lot so you recover quicker,” She gave his cheek a pinch before moving away to walk towards Micah. His mom gently smacked him on the back of his unsuspecting head, “And you, are your hands clean? You went to the restroom and I didn't hear you wash your hands.”

 

“Ow, _ma_ , I did! I used hand sanitizer!”

 

“No, you need to use soap. Marco, you too, go wash your hands. You're sick and were home alone with yourself all day,” Her implications were vague, but it embarrassed him nonetheless and he was reminded that her lack of trust in people also included her (sometimes) innocent sons.

 

“You have any more of that sanitizer?” Marco whispered to Micah. His body was still shivering and he didn't want to go anywhere near water, but their mom heard them over the music and television and frowned at their decision to use harsh chemicals. After they were done washing with _different_ harsh chemicals, she shoved mouthwatering side dishes into their arms and shooed them away into the dining room.

 

The boys ate bits off of the plates as they helped set the table, making space for the juicy beef their mother was bringing in, it was the kind she’d buy when they could spare the extra cash. When everything was ready, she remembered to mention how Armin had dropped off the kale salad he and Krista had made during their culinary class and that Eren had left him his psychology notes so he wouldn't have to scribble them down at school. She said nothing about Jean.

 

_I wonder how he looked._

 

Micah filled his mouth with vegetables, and like always, began speaking with some flying out, “Oh mom, guess what?”

 

“ _Che cosa_?”

 

“I know what those things in your bathroom are for now. I thought they were small diapers, but today we learned they were for your mental cycle. But I have a question about those sticks you keep next to the squares.”

 

His mother, already used to her kids curiosity, explained and corrected in full details about their use and names. His young face had turned bright red and petrified when she was done, but then he forgot about it when he remembered how he'd broken his own record for how high he could kick. The way his hands moved to display his excitement was the definition of exaggeration, and it wasn't needed because the sparkle in his eyes to show his pride conveyed his feelings more than well enough. They were no longer the same tearful eyes that had once cried for their mother all those years ago.

 

Even the past her was no longer with them. The frail woman who used to think she couldn't make it without a husband had been able to work herself to the bone, to push forward until she'd been able to buy a house, two cars and raise a healthy family. It had all taken time - a lot of time - but things had eventually improved for them, especially with the help of those around them.

 

And as he sat there gazing at his small family with love and gratification, for once, he hadn't bothered to think of how it'd be if their father were there to join them.

 

\--------------------

 

Much to Marco's disappointment, the rest of his week hadn't gone like he thought it would. In his head, he had imagined himself pushing through his academics with ease like usual. He'd imagined work would've kept its slow yet peaceful pace as he slowly recuperated from his illness, receiving Mike's warm cup of Joe while Nanaba sent him home at the end of the day with a pat on the back. And most of all, he had imagined himself catching up on conversation with Jean.

 

But you know what they say, people make plans and God laughs at them.

 

Missing a couple days of school had pushed him so far behind, he had had to double check to make sure he really had only been gone that amount. But since Monday's were the days they learned new material, and since he had still been sick when he came back, everything he had heard on Wednesday went in one ear, blended his brain to mush, and left out the other.

 

And work, bless his weary bones, had been _packed_ when he returned. He'd been confused at first, wondering if Guy Fieri had finally visited the place and was the cause of all the attention, but Mike had explained that it was that time of the year where Mr. Zacharius brought back their famous and incredibly cheap winter menus and it was only available after two in the afternoon. People straight out of work - starving, dirty and pleased to be relaxing - filled the place passed its limit.

 

It would've been fine if the three of them had been working together, but Mike and Nanaba’s baby had been sick. Apparently there was a bug going around, so the two males had had to manage on their own. And after hearing a dozen, “Jesus, it stinks in here,” from the cook, Marco had realized that was his way of saying he missed the wife and it encouraged him to clean quicker, serve plates swifter and smile brighter.

 

After that Friday had been over, and he'd laid in bed freshly showered and cocooned in his blankets, he thought about Jean. Not only had he been absent on Wednesday, but also the rest of the days that followed. He had felt his heart drop every time the bell for second period chimed, reminding him that he was going to have to stare at his empty seat all over again. He found himself thinking, _Jesus, nobody's cursed within the last two seconds yet_ , almost the entire class time.

 

His worry had ushered him to ask his friends if Jean was alright earlier that day, deciding he should go to them first before bothering him over a text message, and they'd all replied to Marco as if they'd given him the answer more than once.

 

They said he'd looked worse than usual and was probably sick - with that answer he’d been able to fill in the mystery of Micah's abrupted words, Jean must've looked just as bad as he had the day he came to visit - and noticing his distress, it was Bertholdt who had taken him aside after lunch and revealed that Jean had done the same for him when he missed school on Monday and Tuesday. He said he hadn't been able to accept their, “He's probably sick” answer and had kept bothering them about it.

 

That bit of news had sent a stronger type of warmth Jean usually brought onto him. Marco had tossed and turned, having one of those nights where sleeping became difficult, when he had thought about how his friend was doing. If he had had to guess, he'd say it was pretty bad - since he knew first hand how the rain’s wrath had felt. He'd also thought about if Jean had been looking at the stars on his ceiling like him.

 

Unable to properly lay still, Marco had finally sent Jean a late night message, watching as the date on his phone switch from Friday to Saturday. Because of the time he hadn't expected a reply, but after admittingly waiting for him, his phone had buzzed in his wanting hand. 

 

**From: Jean**  
**\--Yeah, I'm still going to the play tomorrow**  
**\--And you?**

 

**To: Jean**  
**\--Yeah, this time I remembered to request the day off ahead of time. Want to ride together?**

 

He'd had to wait a while for a response, but eventually it came.

 

**From: Jean**  
**\--I'll just meet you there**

 

Marco had accepted the rejection, happy enough that they were going to see each other again, and sent him an **Ok! : >**. After that, the messages had stopped, Marco had undressed himself and he'd fallen into a dreamless sleep.

 

Now it was passed one-thirty in the afternoon and he was locked in the bathroom with his mother's few hair products scattered all over the sink. Spungy mouse was dripping from its can - even after he'd stopped pressing on it - and onto their rough matt. Falsely advertised _Sleek and Shine_ bottles were left in the corner of the sink, they'd only made his hair look greasy, and he didn't dare touch the _24 Hour Hold_ bottle, brittle and dry was already somewhat familiar to him. So as a last resort, one he hadn't wanted to use, he ducked his head under the tub’s faucet and turned it on to get that ‘all natural’ look,

 

_There is no way I can grow my hair out. This is too much work._

 

When he was finally satisfied with the way his black shirt matched his gray cardigan and pants, or how his wavy hair fell on his face, he skipped downstairs to where his jacket and scarf were waiting. It was still Fall, but the temperature had already dropped considerably over the last couple of days.

 

“Are you leaving already?” His mother called out from the living room. She and Micah were still in their pajamas watching a movie that had a lot of gory sound effects.

 

He slipped on his coat and shoes as he spoke, “Yeah, I'll be back before three. Do you guys need anything while I'm out?”

 

“Get donuts!” Micah yelled.

 

Their mom didn't deny his request so he took it as an okay, “Got it, I'll be back later. Love you!”

 

“Love you, too,” They sang back in unison.

 

He smiled and headed out, locking the door behind him. There was a spring to his step that made him feel like he could run all the way to school, but that'd ruin all the effort he put into making himself seem more presentable. As he hopped in his car and drove out, he felt vibrations coming from his pocket. If he hadn't received Connie's frantic calls earlier in the morning, he would've thought it was Jean.

 

Marco had had to calm him while he'd been chewing on scrambled eggs and bagels. Connie had had second thoughts about showing up to his own show because of what might come after during the drama club party. Fortunately, he hadn't been completely serious and just needed someone to hear him freak out again, and Marco felt no mind to do it.

 

The buzzing continued as he drove by three consecutive gas stations, it stopped for a second as he waited for the traffic light to turn green, and before he could fish it out of his jean pocket, it changed and the cars were slowly moving again.

 

_Hands on the wheel at two and ten. Hands on the wheel so you don't wind up dead._

 

Marco repeated the chant to himself until he was parked in the nearly empty school parking lot. Not counting his, there were about only fifteen other's around, with no guarantee they were all there just for the play. He was quite certain the fogged up Toyota in the back was _not_ here for school activities.

 

But the red Jetta was.

 

Jean had parked a long ways away from the school, close to the sky scraping pines surrounding the area. The red pop of color stood out finely against the background - with the trees scarily swaying in the wind, giving the impression they were alive and could sprout legs and arms at any second. The cloudy sky above seemed to threaten that it'd rain soon, but it was already that season where everything felt dark and cozy. And he couldn't wait to crunch the leaves under his feet, eat pumpkin flavored anything and watch as the town decorated itself with Halloween.

 

Marco zipped up his jacket and stepped outside the Tahoe, pulling out his phone to read Connie's messages. When he saw they really had been from him, he pressed the phone icon on the corner of the screen and waited. Connie answered within the first ring.

 

“You here?”

 

“I'm here,” He confirmed, using long peppy strides towards the building.

 

“I'm heading outside. ‘M kinda avoiding you-know-who. She's been giving me the stink eye for a while now, but I don't think she's even noticed what her face is doing. That girl, I swear… Oh! How's it look out there?”

 

“Um, well, it's--”

 

“Is it as empty as I think it is? There's only, like, nine people in the audience right now,” He paused and Marco heard a smile in his next words, "Jean's here.”

 

“Oh, ok,” He brightly responded as he started up the staircase, skipping two at a time, “And it's not _completely_ empty. I mean, there’s definitely more cars than people, so they could just be waiting until it's time for the show to start.”

 

“Nah, this happens all the time. Nobody but overbearing parents and forgetful jerks like you and Jean come to the second premier,” He joked, “Ok, ok, I see y--”

 

He hung up on himself as Marco reached the top of the stairs. From across the bus lane, he saw him sitting on the cemented rectangular blocks the school had made for students waiting to be picked up by their parents. Most just used it to loiter around or make out with one another.

 

Connie was was waving at him as if there were a huge crowd surrounding the boys, his thin arms reminding him of a twig on a tree branch shaking in the current wind. He was wearing high waisted jeans and a white shirt with red letters saying _Kellerman_ across his chest. And for the life of him he couldn't remember the name of the character he was playing.

 

“How’da I look?” Connie asked when he reached him.

 

“You're the watermelon guy, right?”

 

“The name's Billy Kostecki. Damn, why doesn't anybody remember his name? He's the most important character, you know! Without him, Baby would've never gone to the staff party and the movie would've never happened!”

 

“Sorry, sorry! I agree, he deserves more recognition,” Marco crossed his heart to show how serious he was about his friend's role, but from all those Snaps during their rehearsals, he thought Connie would've had a bigger part, “The jeans look great on you, by the way. You should make it a personal style.”

 

He tugged at his costume, forgetting about Billy for the moment, “Really? Thanks, I bought it with my own money. I didn't want my pants to split during the show. Can you believe they tried to make me wear a blond wig? I know I'm half white, but… “

 

He trailed off and laughed, Marco tried to too, but Connie didn't look like he was actually into it. His smile faded into a frown and he started rubbing the top of his shaved head in frustration. He couldn't imagine just how nervous Connie felt, but he guessed it was an extreme amount because he was jacketless in freezing weather and didn't seem at all affected by it. The only thing able to make him shake was the potato girl inside the building.

 

“Hey, it'll be alright. Recently I've learned that there's always more to what we think we know about people,” Marco advised, thinking this would probably only confuse him. He really didn't feel like he was good at this stuff, “And one way or another, things always work themselves out in the end. Just have to be a little patient.”

 

Connie blew air out of his cheeks, “Right, gotta think about that five percent… She sent me a message earlier while we were in the same room going over our lines. She said we would talk later at the party. I about almost shat myself right then.”

 

“Gross,” Marco teased, hoping to get him feeling better, “but if it helps, I'll stay up tonight just in case you need anything, ok?”

 

“ _Anything_?”

 

“Anything,” Marco confirmed.

 

“Like, for example, a _toke_?”

 

He laughed, “Yeah, if that'll help.”

 

“Thanks, man,” Connie bashfully smiled, then looked around them as if he'd just realized where they were standing, “Shit, didn't you just get over the flu? Why didn't you tell me something? Let's go inside!”

 

Marco couldn't help but chuckle at his reaction and let him lead the way. He'd seen how absent minded people became when they held strong feelings for someone. When you're thinking about them, daydreaming even while you're speaking and replaying moments you've had, it's like a part of your brain turns off just so you could focus more on them and how they make you feel. People in love are the biggest klutz, he decided.

 

When they entered the building through the cafeteria, the school echoed with expectant silence. There wasn't a soul in sight, not even a custodian or an administrator, but the two double doors from the theater off to the side were spread open and he could see dim light spilling out and shining against the linoleum floors. Faint voices could be slightly heard, but since Connie said there were only nine people present, it was probably the old vents playing tricks on him.

 

Connie lightly smacked him on the back before telling him he had to get back to the crew, leaving with little jogs as he disappeared behind a corridor. There was a table near the entrance of the theater with pamphlets spread around, looking as if it had started out as an organized stack until someone carelessly knocked it over. He picked up the pink brochure without actually looking it over and went inside.

 

Because the room was bigger than it should be, it took Marco over a minute to find eight of the nine heads Connie mentioned seeing. There was a couple way out in the back, on the opposite entrance he had came in from, giggling to one another as they watched something on their phones. A mother and what looked to be _her_ mother were smack dab in the middle of the theater with cameras in their ready hands, softly speaking to one another.

 

A trio of friends - most likely the pamphlet knockers - were huddled on the farthest right side of the room. From the sound of their loud voices, he guessed they were freshmen. The eighth head was a bald man, cross armed with stiff and serious shoulders from where Marco could see, but he was sitting in the very front row with a white poster as tall as his leg beside him.

 

Then his eyes caught the ninth and final head, sitting rows and rows in front of him, almost as close to the front as the bald man, but not quite. They had messy-beige hair sticking out in every direction from the back of their head and were wrapped in a thick coat with a hoodie underneath. There was a black scarf fitted around their neck, making it almost impossible for him to see the familiar earrings pierced on their lobes.

 

Marco's stomach flipped as he marched towards Jean. He didn't know if he was going to roll his eyes at him, ignore him, jump with as much joy as he felt, or what, but another chant began to play in Marco's head. He reminded himself to be cool, to be calm and to give him space in order not to freak him out with his friendliness.

 

An angry, kitten version of Jean played in his imagination as his legs made it to him.

 

“Is this seat taken?” Marco asked, not really joking because he didn't know if any of their friends had came to watch the show for a second time, and that was a really big _if_.

 

Much like Ymir, he managed to make Jean jump in fear, and when he got a good look at his bewildered face he understood why he'd missed so many days of school. There was still darkness underneath Jean's eyes and pinkness on his nose from wiping it so much. His usually healthy pale face was now sickly and devoid of its brightness. Even his lips had succumb to the nasty cold, they were maroon, swollen and cracked with shine from chapstick.

 

“Don't sneak up on people!” Jean shouted, his voice hoarse and nasally.

 

Marco took that as a ‘this spot’s open, buddy’ and sat down beside him, apologizing while a giggle tried to find its way out. The crack in his smile was too hard to control and it didn't go unnoticed. Jean scowled at him for finding his scare funny then went back to facing the front of the room, already leaving Marco the impression that he had failed in trying to be cool. 

 

For fear that he'd anger Jean even more, he remained as quiet as him, only starring in agreement at the blue curtains that should be opening in a little over ten minutes. Marco didn't really mind not speaking with him anyways, because to him this counted as hanging out with your best friend and his delighted heart finally felt satisfied about being together. But it didn't take long before the grump initiated conversation.

 

“You still look like you're sick.”

 

Marco felt himself happily tense up, “I do?”

 

“You're almost as white as me… “ He sniffled, “Well, maybe not _that_ white.”

 

“Oh, this happens every year when the weather gets cold,” He shifted in his seat, unzipping his jacket to place the pamphlet inside its secret pocket and spreading his legs a little more to get comfortable, “I see the rain from Saturday still has its curse on you.”

 

They continued to look ahead as they spoke to one another, “Did my amazing face give it away? I bet I look so hot right now.”

 

_He's grouchy._

 

“Yeah, something like that. How are you feeling?”

 

“I-I'm fine. ‘S just a cold, this is nothing.”

 

“You missed three days of school, Jean,” Marco reminded.

 

His remark only made Jean grunt, resembling something like a snicker, as he brought an elbow to the armrest in between them and a hand up to his face as he tucked it under his chin. Marco could see stubble from the corner of his eye as Jean spoke, “Don't tell me you kept count? Did you miss me that much?”

 

That was an obvious rhetorical question mixed with a dash of Jean's special sarcasm, but Marco didn't care. He knew there was no shame in telling your friends you missed them, so with all honesty he said, “Well, yeah. I was alone during second period. It was weird not hearing someone curse as much as you do.”

 

Marco heard him start bouncing his leg on the rough carpeted floor. There was a brief pause before Jean stopped trying to be cool himself and joined his lame-o, “Well, now you know I felt. Except instead of cursing, it felt weird not hearing you say my name. You say it in every sentence like a period.”

 

“No I don't,” He weakly denied with a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, watching as the curtain mysteriously wave by someone behind it.

 

“Yeah, you do.”

 

“Does it… Does it bother you?”

 

“No, I wouldn't say _bother_. It just feels weird when people actually use my name.”

 

There was a hint to that that Marco could understand. When Jean had yelled at him last Saturday, he'd said his name more times than he could remember him doing before, but he didn't think it felt all that bad, “Sorry. Do you want me to call you something else?”

 

“Pfft. Like what?”

 

“Is Jeanbo alright?”

 

“No!” Jean shouted, “Out of the question! It's illegal to use that name anywhere near or around me. Your fine is already at its thousands, by the way.”

 

_Ah, his jokes are back._

 

“Ok then, what about the one Eren uses? Is Horsefa--”

 

That earned him a flick to the ear _and_ on the head, the whole time the two keeping their composure to the front, “That one's punishable by death. I've killed Eren eight times already.”

 

“But I've called you that before, haven't I?” Marco asked, wanting to look at him.

 

“Those times were… well deserved,” Jean sniffled again and took a quick moment to clear his throat, “But now that we're, uh, now that we're good, you won't be able to get away with it.”

 

He had to smile at that. Jean was trying, really trying, to make things as normal as possible for them. Marco could tell it all still felt stiff for him, but that's why he was here to remind Jean that everything really was fine now, “Ok, got it, Horseface is prohibited.”

 

“You just - you just fucking said it, Marco.”

 

“Said what?”

 

“Horsef--The bad word!”

 

“I did?”

 

“Yeah, you… Wait a minute. Are you doing that thing where you're messing with me again?”

 

_Playing dumb, Jean, I'm playing dumb. And yes I am._

 

“No, I'm not,” His lie bubbled up with laughter, giving himself away.

 

From beside him, he heard Jean exhale, but there was a smile that could be heard behind it, “For some reason, I get the feeling you've been hanging around me too much. Some of my asshole-ness seems to have rubbed off on you.”

 

“Probably. But that's normal, isn't it?” Marco asked, watching the profile of Jean's face from his peripherals, he knew Jean was doing the same to him, “People pick up on each other's habits all the time. You made me into a butt and I bet I rubbed off on you, too.”

 

“Yeah you did, you spacehead. I've caught some of your sappiness, I can't even look at a damn rock the same way anymore.”

 

He didn't know what that meant, but it made him feel an odd type of proudness, “Well, at least you didn't catch my freckles.”

 

“Er--!”

 

The low lights that had illuminated the theater suddenly turned off. There were murmurs around them as a single spot light directed its way to the front of the stage on ruffling blue curtains until a boy popped out. He was tall and thin with a prominent nose, the waiter suit on his body looked as cheap as the bald cap they had borrowed and the black bow tie around his neck needed to be severely tightened. Black strands of hair were already limping on his - what Marco believed to be - hairsprayed head. But he carried a very professional and earnest air around him that made the audience forgive all those preparation faults.

 

“Thank you for your patience,” The boy bellowed as if he were speaking to a full house, “My name is Marlowe! Marlowe Freudenberg! And I am here to announce that the show will begin in five short minutes! Take this moment to turn off your cellphones, as respect towards your fellow audience members, and to use the restroom if needed! We've had accidents. Also, any form of sexual activities will be--”

 

The Marlowe boy disappeared behind the curtains and there was the sound of a struggle before a girl came out. She was smiling with annoyance visible on her face as the freshmen cackled from the other side, wearing the protagonists cute pink blouse and long jean shorts. There was something about her that made Marco nervous.

 

Beside him, Jean sucked in his breath and slid halfway down his chair, “ _Shit._ ”

 

“What's wrong?” Marco asked, staring at his shoes.

 

Jean groaned, “That's Hitch the Bitch. She's been looking for me ever since we tore up their costumes.”

 

“That's a mean name,” Marco said as he looked back at the girl. She quickly apologized for her partner’s words, thanked them for their patience again and left. Her dark aura lingered, “I can see why you'd be scared of her, though.”

 

“I'm not scared,” He denied, sliding back up and taking the armrest for himself again, “You just haven't met her yet.”

 

“If you want, I can talk to her and explain what happened? The wings breaking was an accident… and the wig was my fault, so I should be the one to apologize anyways,” He turned to Jean, breaking whatever unsaid rule they'd had about not staring at one another. His disheveled hair poked out at familiar angles that Marco remembered from the two times he'd slept over.

 

“She's gonna eat you alive,” Jean disapproved, shaking his head and only turning the tiniest bit in Marco's direction. Even if his pale face had been stricken with a cold, those eyes of his remained lively.

 

_Cool went out the window, but you still have to remain calm and give him space._

 

“Will you come to my funeral, then?”

 

Jean let out an airy laugh, voice deep and low from sickness, “Such a drama queen. Maybe you should've joined _this_ instead of that BJ stuff.”

 

“It's BJJ, Jean.”

 

“What did I say?”

 

“Something inappropriate.”

 

“Meh, I'm probably not far off,” He fully turned to him now, challenging Marco with his stare to say it was actually far from it because he knew blow jobs and Brazilian Jiu Jitsu were _not_ the same thing, but Marco's mouth stayed shut.

Their faces were so close to one another, with Jean's mouth slightly open to help him breathe, caressing Marco's increasingly warm skin - it smelled like he'd had one too many minty Hales. He was captivated by the dare in his amber eyes, the length of his light colored lashes and even though his face wasn't at its best, he was enjoying the sight of stubble along his jaw.

_Give him space_ , Marco reminded himself, forgetting that the kind he’d meant before had more to do with an emotional distance. 

But he felt stuck and did nothing to try and back away. After all, it _was_ the theater, and like the Marlowe boy had said, they _should_ be quiet and considerate of everyone around them. That's all Marco was doing, just being respectful to the seven scattered souls around them, taking one for the team as he remained inches away from his best friend because even Jean hadn't seemed to notice - or care about - just how close they were. 

Marco moved his mouth, getting ready to counter Jean's comment, but nothing came out. The only image present inside his head were the colorful bars old televisions broadcasted during test signals. He wanted to break their awkward staring contest, and the longer he gawked at Jean, the stronger the new feeling in his stomach became. Jean noticed his bizarre behavior, sending Marco a questionable look for his silence as he removed his limb from the armrest. 

“You really are sick, aren't you?” He asked, straightening up to normally sit now. 

“Why do you ask or--why?” 

“You still seem like you're out of it,” His body stiffened, “Don't tell me you caught my cold?” 

_Oh, I think I caught_ something. 

“I don't think I'd get sick that fast,” He gave Jean the best grin he could muster, “Don't worry, I'm ok.” 

Jean studied his face before he went back to turning to the front of the room, “Alright, if you say so.” 

Marco watched as he bordely wiped his nose with the back of his hand, grumbling under his breath about, “Shitty ass weather” and snuggling deeper into the scarf and coat. Almost every detail of Jean's physical well being had shifted to a different one from Marco's memory of last week, and yet, as he deeply sighed with unwanted realization, he still thought Jean looked remarkably handsome. 

_Yeah, I've got smooch-eyes for him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _CHOO!!! CHOO!!!_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> The TOL Express will now be heading towards the island of Friends2Lovers!!!
> 
> *to the beat of Thomas the Train*
> 
> "They're two, they're four, they're six, they're gay  
> Blushing cheeks and smiling face..."
> 
> Thank you for being so patient with me


	15. Lucifugal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Easily distracted grandpa's low-key flirting with one another during friends play

Jean didn't have to be there, seated in a practically empty theater watching the play his friends were horrendously acting in. He could've stayed home wrapped up in his blankets on top of his bunk with a box of tissues next to him, watching whatever movies he wanted while his worn out mother peacefully slept in her room. He could've remained in his pajamas and eaten one, three or even _seven_ slices of lemon cake she'd been given at work, because that's how much food it took to make him taste flavor again.

 

Yeah, he really didn't have to be there, but somehow that's not how things turned out. Just out of the blue, in the middle of the night - or morning - when he'd been busy making himself some hot chocolate, he'd received a message from the bundle of high hope that was still staring at him. Before he had known it, he'd made plans with Marco, telling him he'd be attending the play he could give two shits about, and even now his body was cursing him for making that wretched promise.

 

_Quit staring at me, Marco. Do I have snot smeared across my face or something?... Shit, do I?_ , He thought, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand. There was nothing there, but his movement had caused Marco to thankfully face the front of the room.

 

Jean felt gross, more than usual, and because he felt that way he had made sure to come extra early so no one could see him or his fucked up face. He'd had half a mind to text Marco and tell him his dog got ran over, but then he remembered he didn't have any pets and that Marco probably didn't care about how sick he looked. After all, he's already seen him drunk, sweaty and recently woken up.

 

Not only that, but he also didn't like going back on his word. No matter how embarrassed he was about losing his cool last weekend, he'd been looking forward to seeing Marco again and talking about whatever new nonsense they could. After being stuck with him everyday during school - plus weekends - he felt uncomfortable not having him around. How could he not? Marco was one of those people where you just notice when their presence was gone.

 

And much to his pleasant surprise, he'd been able to keep his emotions for Marco in one place and his self hatred in another. Now that he was thinking about it, it was pretty impossible to mix the two. His negativity was hard stones sunken underneath a pond while the green pad that was Marco naturally floated on top. But Jean was also the little flower lily keeping the equally lonely pad company.

 

He took a quick sideways glance at the quiet boy. Marco's eyes were glazed, dark brows raised as if someone had just told him a dark family secret and mouth slightly open. For someone who had actually _wanted_ to come, Jean would've thought he'd be paying more attention to the damn play.

 

"Close your mouth before a fly flies in," He softly tapped the bottom of Marco's chin, causing his teeth to clink together. Jean could feel how clean he had shaven from underneath his fingertips, reminding him of how big of a mess he chose to be today.

 

Marco snapped out of whatever dimension he was in with a faint yelp, touching his chin where Jean had and then laughing with as much falseness as the acting on stage. He gave him a funny smile, then resumed watching the show. He said nothing about his day dreaming, retorted back how Jean was also breathing out of his mouth or even giving an expectant apology. Jean should've listened to his gut when he felt that Marco still wasn't healthy.

 

The boy didn't look sick, but Jean's only known him for three months. That wasn't nearly enough time to notice every detail about him like the way Eren and Armin do to one another. There was still a million things he was going to figure out about this kid, things he had for some absurd reason had been afraid to know, and realizing when Marco was sick was still an unlocked power. Knowing that he wouldn't complain about it, though, wasn't.

 

Jean sunk into his seat, allowing his scarf to hide half of his face and coat to ride up his torso. Thanks to his growing bangs, he was able to discretely study Marco to find signs of a remaining flu, but it was hard to see in this type of lighting. The only way he knew how to check for a fever was by touching people's faces, but since Jean was sick, he didn't want to infect Marco if he wasn't already.

 

"Ugh," He could feel his nerves starting to get irritated. After waiting a whole week to hang out again, all he felt was useless. Jean peered up at him so he'd notice this time, "Pst, Marco."

 

“Hm?”

 

He shuffled back up, “Do you wanna go?”

 

"Go where?" He whispered. Of course he'd actually think of their 'fellow audience members'.

 

"I don't know... wanna go back to my place?"

 

Marco ran a hand through his hair, "Uh, um, I think we should stay. Don't you? Isn't this your favorite movie?"

 

“Yeah, but they're butchering it worse than ground beef. You weren't even paying attention to it until I snapped you out of it.”

 

“I was paying attention.”

 

"Right, and I'm the fucking President of the United States of America... If you're not feeling well, we can leave right now. I'd take the blame for it, too if you want."

 

He didn't know what magic word he said, but it softened Marco's stiff shoulders, "I'm fine Jean, really. But maybe we should stay. I think they'd feel bad if we left so early."

 

"I've done it many times before," He argued.

 

"And do they take it well?"

 

"No, not exactly. Sasha mostly gets offended, but I only have to wait a week before she starts talking to me again so it's not _that_ bad, is it?"

 

Marco's brows furrowed, "It's a little bad, yeah."

 

"Fine," He grumbled, "I guess we could stay."

 

"You don't have to, you know. I'm sure they'll understand if you left since you're sick and all. I don't mind watching by myself."

 

Jean crossed his arms and shook his head, "I may not look it but I feel great. And even if the play _does_ suck, I said I'd be here so here I'll stay. Got it?"

 

“Yes, sir,” Marco joked, but he could still feel some of the uncertainty in his voice.

 

“Oh look, it's Connie's scene,” Jean pointed at the stage and fixed his attention towards it, trying to end the subject and distract him from thinking he was sick, but it backfired because it hooked Jean in like a dumb ole fish.

 

“Hi!” Baby being played by Hitch called out to the watermelon guy Connie was playing. Her uncharacteristically friendly voice sent the feeling of doom down his back, but he ignored it and continued to watch. She strolled down the made-from-scratch cardboard bridge that connected to a large background with what was supposed to be stairs that lead to the staff party.

 

Watermelon Guy whirled around, pretending to struggle with three plastic melons around his arms, “Hey, how'd you get here?”

 

“I was taking a walk.”

 

“You hav'ta go back!” He ordered, almost letting the fruit fall.

 

She leaned in to grab one of the watermelons, “Let me help you.”

 

“No!”

 

Baby ignored him and grabbed one anyways, “What's up there?”

 

“No guests allowed – house rules! Look, why don't you go back to the playhouse? I saw you dancing with the little boss man,” Watermelon Guy started dancing with the two other melons like in the movie, humming at her in a mocking manner. Hitch shoved the supposed heavy fruit back at him – with more force than she actually should've, causing him to cough as she began to walk away, “C-Can you keep a secret?”

 

She said nothing, but walked back to him.

 

“Your parents,” He continued, “would _kill_ you, and Max'll kill _me_.”

 

Jean watched them until the spotlight flickered off again to allow the crew to rapidly change the scenery from behind and add or remove props. _Do You Love Me_ by The Contours started blasting through the speakers and he could hear the kids on the other side of the room hollering with excitement. 

 

Since the beginning when Sasha had told him what play they were doing, he kept wondering if the drama teacher would actually allow his students to grind against one another, and now as the lights were switched back on, he should've known Mr. Gelgar would've taken advantage of the lack of popularity in the theater department to let them dance closer than the ruler-length rule.

 

“Oh, god,” Jean muttered, embarrassed for the actors.

 

It wasn't as inappropriate as it was in the movie, but boy were they pushing it. The girls weren't wearing anything too revealing and they weren't hiked up on the dude's legs, but they were holding one another tight with their faces so close it looked as if they were all going to kiss at any moment. There was a lot of fog coming from one side – probably to hide the dancing or mimic the smoke from the movie – and Jean just couldn't stop thinking about how shitty it all was, but at the same time, he couldn't tear his eyes away.

 

“Where'd they learn how to do that?” Baby asked after she was done ogling the dancers.

 

“Where? I dunno, kids are doing it in the basements back home... wanna try it?” He asked, dancing with the watermelons as she shook her head. He chuckled and started walking towards the only table on stage, “C'mon, Baby.”

 

By heart, Jean already knew what was coming next. Baby would awkwardly watch the dancers as she walked passed them, Watermelon dude would tell her he'd get fired if they all danced like that on the main floor in front of the guests, and then Johnny Castle and Penny Johnson would coming bouncing in hand-in-hand to liven up the party even more.

 

And when that _did_ happen, he groaned louder as he saw just who was being played by the characters, covering his face with his hands and rolling his eyes to the back of his head. They could've at least picked people who weren't in love with one another to play the part. These two were going to ruin the chemistry between the main characters! Jean had been disappointed when Sasha hadn't wanted to reveal her role until the day of the show, and when he'd seen her in the beginning as Baby's sister, he felt that disappointment double. But this took the cake, the tasteless, ruined cake.

 

“Franz and Hannah? Really? I give up,” He puffed.

 

Marco glanced down at him with enjoyment, "What's wrong, Mr. Movie Critic?"

 

"What's wrong? Are we watching the same thing here? Look, aren't those two dating? They're going to make people wish Johnny and Penny would've ended up together because of those _looks_ they'll be giving each other when it was _Baby_ who worked so hard to be a good partner for him. Not that there's anything wrong with Penny, it's just, Baby is Johnny's girl and I can't see it any other way."

 

"Jean, are you jealous for Baby?"

 

He felt his face slightly heat up, “No, I'm not. The whole thing just sucks.”

 

“It's not all that bad," Marco said with little confidence, ”But I can see what you mean, just a little. The dancing made me feel uncomfortable."

 

Jean straightened up and cracked his toes in his shoes, “I should've auditioned and taken Hannah's role.”

 

“You know how to dance?”

 

“What's that supposed to mean?" Jean turned to him and waited for Marco to meet his eyes, "Are you saying I have the face of someone with two left feet?”

 

“Well...” He teased, bringing a hand up to his mouth to chew on his nail, ignoring Jean's scowl, “is that the same thing as saying someone is uncoordinated?”

 

Jean almost ruffled his hair, but he could tell his friend had put more effort into fixing it today. Instead he sent a cheeky smirk Marco's way, “Let me ask you something. Was it _me_ who broke Sasha's cookie jar and cut my hand on it? Was it _me_ who fell flat on my face the morning of our project? Was it _me_ who banged my knee against my headlight last weekend? Hm, hm, hm?”

 

“Hm, hm, hm,” Was all Marco hummed back, but there was a smile on his face that said he had no comeback because he knew Jean was right.

 

“ _You're_ the clumsy one here. Not even Sasha is at your level, and we all know how she can get,” Jean watched the way the glimmer in his eyes turned from bashful to something different, something he was too dense to understand, “But yeah, you better believe I can dance, Bott – er – Marco. I've got hips that could put a fucking washing machine to shame. “

 

Marco kept his focus on the play that Jean wasn't interested in, biting his nail with more eagerness, “I guess I'll be seeing that on Armin's birthday?”

 

“Most likely, yeah, and what about you? You know how to dance?”

 

“Do I get points for trying?” He laughed at himself then shrugged, “My body only knows how to move when I fight. I've never really danced much before – unless you count the times I've done it when I was younger during my boy band obsession.”

 

_Fuck, Eren was right. We do have a lot in common._

 

Jean cleared his slimy throat, “You're gonna end up looking like one of those inflatables at car dealerships if you don't start learning now.”

 

“But I'm good with my feet already, so it shouldn't be a problem if I don't practice, right? I don't think I'll have the time now that I'll be going back to the gym.”

 

“Excuses, excuses,” Jean halfheartedly chided, feeling a little down that they'd have less time to hang out, “But I guess if everyone at the club gets tired of you stepping on their feet, we can just dance together. Oh man, wait until you see Ymir dance with all those girls around. It's the funniest thing ever. She looks like one of those small rat-dogs with a giant bone – there's slobber everywhere.”

 

The spotlight on the stage disappeared again, making Jean momentarily look at the front. He'd missed the scene where Johnny was supposed to teach Baby how to dirty dance and he was glad he did. He didn't want to see that train wreck or any of the pointed looks Hannah must've been sending Hitch and Franz's way.

 

When the lights went back on, the 'Little Boss Man' Connie had mentioned before was with Baby out on a walk. Jean didn't know who the student playing him was, but he looked like an asshole just like the character in the movie. Sasha was in this part. She was arguing with Robbie, the guy who had introduced himself as Marlowe, and tugging at her clothes to give the illusion they'd been undone.

 

She was yelling incoherent things at Robbie for his sexual advances and he yelled right back at her. Their chemistry was probably the closest thing to believable than the rest, and maybe if Jean didn't know any of them, he'd think they were all better than what his current opinion was now. He watched as Baby and the Little Boss Man stayed quiet until the couple was gone, but then his attention shifted again.

 

He looked over at Marco, knowing he should really be more thoughtful and at least pretend he was watching the damn thing like he was, but Jean didn't have that kind of patience. And talking about dancing had triggered a button inside of him that made it hard for him to want to stay quiet. He would've filled the others ear with meaningless babbles if he'd known what more about dancing he could mention, but his mind was coming to a blank as he watched his friend for some sort of inspiration.

 

Marco squirmed in his seat, most likely due to Jean's staring, and then turned to stare right back. Even with the low amount of light, he could see Marco's short but curled black lashes and brown freckles scattered on his fond face. At this distance, he could see a particularly larger yet lighter freckle on the corner of his left eye, happy that his curiosity had been met the day Marco had ripped his shirt off during their own play so he wouldn't wonder if he had the same amount on his body anymore.

 

His flashback had been interrupted when he realized Marco had been saying something.

 

“Huh?”

 

“I asked if you really wouldn't mind putting up with me on Armin's birthday?” He tilted his head like a puppy, “Are you sure you're feeling 'great'?”

 

“Oh, yeah I'm fine, and don't even think about it in that way. I'll tell you what, what if you just practice with me for the first hour?”

 

“Uh--”

 

“I taught Connie and Sash how to do it in under three days,” He proudly stated, “And if I can teach those two monkey's how to dance in that amount of time, you'll be fine with one or two hours with me. Then you can dance with whoever you want with confidence or whatever.”

 

“Right. Ok. Thanks Jean.”

 

“ _Pas de problème_.” He said, liking the way Marco smiled at his French.

 

“No problem?”

 

“Yeah,” He smiled back, “no problem. It'd suck if you had a bad Halloween because of something so easy to learn.”

 

Marco's face lit up when he suddenly remembered something and Jean started feeling bad for distracting him from the show, “Oh! Are you dressing up? I kinda want to but I don't want to do it alone. Do you think the others will?”

 

He hadn't thought about it yet, but Marco just made the decision for him, “'Course I'm putting on a costume. What kind of question is that?”

 

“Really? You are? What are you going as?”

 

“Uh, I haven't thought that far ahead. I have a few costumes from years ago, maybe I'll wear those again. Unless... ”

 

“Unless what?”

 

“Do you want to match? Last year Sasha and Connie went as Peniss and they looked pretty cool.”

 

Marco's eyes popped out, “They went as a... penis?”

 

“No, no. They went as _Peniss_. That's the couple name for Peeta and Katniss. Get with the times, Marco.”

 

He blinked a couple times to let that sink in, then shook his head, “Alright, matching sounds fun, but let's not combine anything to get a name like that.”

 

“Got it, Grandpa. We should really look for some costumes before everyone takes the good stuff.”

 

“I am not a grandpa.”

 

“Sure you are. Didn't you have white hair once?”

 

Marco huffed, “For about half an hour. But I also had wings, does that make me an angel, too?”

 

“Psh, sometimes _I_ don't even know. Actually, you still have wings.”

 

“O-Oh yeah, I do.”

 

Jean rolled his eyes at him, “Did you forget you had a tattoo? Like I said, grandpa.”

 

“Ok, but you sleep all the time at school and you get grouchy at everything, so you're like a grandpa, too.”

 

“I do _not_ sleep all the time and it's not my fault everyone is so damn irritating. I have to deal with all these loud-mouths at school for eight full hours, how can I not be grouchy?”

 

“Tired all the time? Check,” Marco checked off an imaginary board in front of himself, “Sensitive to loud noises? Check. Is a grandpa? Check.”

 

“Fine! Fine, so Grandpa, when do you want to go shopping for costumes?”

 

“I have to check my schedule, Grandpa, it's a little tight right now.”

 

They spent the next few minutes hunched close to one another, whispering tender insults as they brainstormed. Jean wanted to go searching for costumes later today, but Marco had to remind him that he was sick and needed to rest. Sunday and Monday weren't an option either since Marco had to work. The only available time they had was this upcoming Tuesday after Marco was out of the gym, making Jean realize he had way to much free time now that he wasn't playing soccer. Both were aware that next Saturday or Sunday were way better options, but it felt too far for the boys.

 

With a date set, Jean was able to relax and release a long, deep breath. The couple of days Marco had been home sick, a big part of his mind kept telling him he was being avoided. He'd been afraid that that kindness of his had reached its limit after Marco went home and thought of everything Jean had told him, so when Eren had announced to him that he was going to go drop something off at his house last Tuesday, Jean's wounded pride had wanted to confront him. 

 

His paranoia had told him Marco hadn't _really_ been sick, ignoring all the times his friends told him that's the only reason why he'd ever miss school, but when they'd made it to his house and Ms. Camilla specifically asked Jean to go upstairs and check up on Marco while she continued cooking, he knew he'd been an idiot. By just the small amount of light entering his room, Jean had been able to see his pale face soundly sleeping and looking just as sick as he had felt that day.

 

Then when it'd been his turn to miss school and feel like a big heated pile of shit at home, he'd understood why Marco never messaged anyone. His eyes had only wanted darkness and his body had craved nothing but sleep. He'd been so sick that his dreams had turned into corny dramas where Marco actually betrayed him in the end, but there was never any physical violence. The way he got his revenge was by cutting holes in all of his socks where the pinky-toe was located.

 

Jean could laugh at that now, but in more seriousness, he should know already that that's just not the type of person Marco was and that he needed to trust him more since he'd never given Jean any reason to doubt him in the first place. Since the beginning he's been nothing but patient and Jean couldn't thank him enough for that.

 

“So I'll go wait for you at the gym, right?” Jean asked, resting his back against the seat to finally watch the play. He nestled his arms on the armchairs and was happy that he was wearing lots of layers. It almost felt like he was back at home.

 

“Or, if you want – you don't really have to – you can come a little earlier and wait inside for me?”

 

“Am I allowed to? I don't want Annie to kill me.”

 

“She wouldn't do that,” He bumped their shoulders together, “And she wouldn't mind either. Sometimes she lets Mika and Reiner use the gym when the adults are off on a retreat to spar with them.”

 

“Oho, wait a minute,” He perked up, “So are you challenging me?”

 

“Oh gosh, what's that head of yours thinking now?”

 

“You wanna continue our fighting?” Jean asked, ignoring that question of his. There were no more masochistic feelings this time as he thought about sparing with Marco, he was genuinely curious as to see how they'd do in a match together – not drunk and fully conscience.

 

“How did you interpret that from me inviting you to sit and wait in the building rather out in the cold?... And, I wouldn't really call it a _fight_ since I'm just going to keep on winning, anyway.”

 

“Oh! Oh, is that so?”

 

Marco nodded, all smiles and teasing eyes, “Mmhmm.”

 

“You forget I once punched a man at a Red Lobster for you,” Jean pointed out like a hero, but then like a villain he said, “But brace yourself, I'm going to kick your freckled ass so hard that you'll be the one who ends up on your back this time.”

 

He heard a low snicker - or was it a growl? - coming deep from Marco's chest. He started shifting in his seat and biting on his bottom lip again, “You sure you can do that? I've got over five years of martial arts experience under my belt.”

 

“Ho yeah, I'm sure.”

 

Marco faced him and bore their eyes together, the blaze of a doughty fighter already dancing behind those dark, golden orbs, “In that case I won't be holding back on you, Jean.”

 

“G-Good, that's what I want because I won't-I won't be holding back on you either.”

 

“OK,” He smiled, “good.”

 

“Good.”

 

“Tuesday, then.”

 

“Yep, Tuesday,” Jean confirmed with exciting fear.

 

\--------------------

 

“Sasha? Hello, anybody in here?”

 

The drama room was an ugly disaster when Jean entered. He'd received multiple messages from the girl earlier in the morning, telling him to go there after the play was over because there was something urgent she needed to talk to him about. He'd waited until everyone, including Marco, had left like she'd instructed him to do. He had an idea of what she wanted to say, but he couldn't help thinking that this girl was ridiculous and maybe even more paranoid than himself for asking him to make sure no one saw him come in.

 

_Please, the only thing that'd still linger around here on weekends are the roaches and spiders._

 

His eyes scanned the large room, finding hills and valleys made up of costumes, props, tools and index cards scattered all over the place. And no sign of Potato Girl even though she'd fit perfectly in with the disorganization. Jean went and plopped down on one of the many desk-less chairs available to wait. For all he knew, she was doing girl stuff in the bathroom or was getting yelled at by the teacher for mixing up her lines towards the end of the show.

 

So being the great friend that he was, he waited. And waited. And waited. And waited until he felt himself drifting off to sleep. Being sick really drained him of his energy, and now that Marco wasn't here to distract him of how shitty he was feeling, he wanted to ditch her and go back home.

 

A hazy picture began forming in his head before a familiar and incredibly loud voice blew it away like smoke.

 

“Jean? What are you – oh! Pfft, I forgot I told you to come here. Sorry, they had snacks back stage.”

 

He cracked his eyes open and glared at her, “You _forgot_?”

 

“Yeah, they had snacks,” She repeated, shrugging as if it was no big deal when he was sick and needed his bed.

 

“If what you had to tell me wasn't that important in the first place, you should've said so, you damn vacuum.”

 

“Awe, no need to be ass,” She was still wearing her costume from the last scene, holding onto an armful of muffins against her high waist-ed skirt as she shoved a chair in front of him before sitting down, “Want one? Marlowe's dad made them. He was the guy with the big poster in the front, you saw him right?”

 

“Give me three, plus two for making me wait.”

 

She looked down at her pile and frowned, “But... but they're banana nut. They're my favorite.”

 

“Ugh, fine, give me one and get to your supposed urgent message.”

 

“I love bargaining with you,” She threw him a muffin but his reflexes weren't ready to catch it. The pastry bounced off of his fingers, landing a couple feet away and they both stared at it for a while until she got up, put it back in her arms and handed him a new one, “What I wanted to talk about was Connie. You haven't forgotten what I confessed to you a long time ago, right?”

 

“You mean like how you have the hots for him?” He asked, taking a bite of the flavorless bread.

 

“OK good, you do remember. Well, today is the drama party and I was thinking of telling him how I feel... _but_! I also want to give him an earful for abandoning me without ever explaining why and then forcing him to tell me his reasons. What do you think? Is it a good plan? Krista's been teaching me these neat empowering things.”

 

Jean chewed and thought about it for a quick second, “So you're planning on saying something like 'Connie my beloved, will you be my one and only handsome bald prince forever? And by the way, why have you been avoiding me you damn son of a bitch? Tell me or I'll cut you!'”

 

“Jean, be serious!”

 

“I am being serious! You can't just tell the guy you love him and _then_ make him pay for what he's done. It'll ruin the mood.”

 

She bit off half of the pastry and spoke, “Oh right, you read those girly comic books. So what do you think I should do?”

 

“They're not – ugh, never mind. Anyways, I think your plan is good if you switch the order. First, you tell him how you've felt being ignored by him - yadda yadda yadda, personal personal personal - and then _ka-pow_! You drop the 'L' bomb after you're done venting on his ass and watch your life become a fairy tale.”

 

“The 'L' bomb? What's that?”

 

“Love, Sasha, the fucking love bomb.”

 

Her brown eyes widened, face turning bright pink as she tried to hide it behind a new muffin, “Don't say it out loud, geez, it's so embarrassing.”

 

“If you can't hear the word, how are you planning on even saying it to Connie?”

 

“It's different when it comes to him!...” She shied away from his gaze, “It's, yeah, it's different with him.”

 

Jean felt a part of his bad mood lift. The big chunk of love he held in his heart for his friends made a smile pop on his face, one that wasn't full of jokes or sarcasm. These two dorks could be on their way to making a future together, and he didn't know it it'd work out – or let alone even happen tonight – but seeing Sasha this way made him send a prayer to the big Man upstairs.

 

“So, what'll you do if he loves you back?”

 

“What'll I... do?”

 

“Yeah, you know that _could_ happen.”

 

Sasha dreamily looked up at the ceiling, batting her eyes like some cartoon princess, “Ugh, if that happened I'd be the happiest girl in the world, Jean. I'd ask him to be my boyfriend and he'd say yes and we'd make out,” Her face fell, “But he's been so hard to read lately, I don't know. It's all wishful thinking.”

 

“You never know, I mean, some people with crushes area _really_ good at hiding it,” Jean said, feeling blood pool on his face for using himself as an example, “They could feel one way and act the complete opposite.”

 

“Wow, I don't think I have the mental capacity for _that_. I have to tell him, that's all I want to do. And if he rejects me, son, you better get those lame movies of yours ready.”

 

“You got it,” He gave her a head nod and reached for another muffin, but she swatted his hand away, “I've already got the tissues ready, so call me if things don't go as planned... and give me the damn muffin Vacuum Mouth.”

 

She laughed and shook her head, “How'd you know what all the boys call me?”

 

“Gross! Ew, ack! Sasha, you're like my sister, please don't ever joke like that!”

 

“Oh please, don't get all high and mighty on me now. We used to talk about _your_ mouth adventures when you had a boyfriend. You know I've never even seen a real life dick before!”

 

“I only did it like three times, so it doesn't even count as anything,” He coughed into his fist, “And I'm pretty sure the others have more experience than me, so leave me alone.”

 

She thought for a second, then nodded, “Yeah, probably. Actually, if we were to put it on list, me, Connie and Krista would be at the very bottom with zero experience, then it'd be Armin and Eren – they look like they'd only ever gone to first base. You and Marco would probably be next, with going all three bases. Hm, maybe even Rei and Bertty, too. And who knows about what Annie and Mika do, they could either be nuns or spread as easy as melted butter. Then that leaves our queen, Ymir, on top.”

 

Something she had said caught his ear, “Shouldn't Marco be in with the first base, too? He doesn't look like he's done anything either.”

 

“Oh, Kirstein,” She shook her head and smiled, taking a bite of the muffin. Bits of food flew out of her mouth when she spoke, “Don't you know what they say about the innocent and quiet looking ones?”

 

“Uh, that they're innocent and quiet?”

 

“No. Well, I can't spill the beans about what me and little 'ole Freckles have talked about, but trust me, he's up there in third base with you.”

 

He scowled, feeling curious about Marco's past experiences and deciding he'd save that wondering for when they continued playing their game of 21 Question's. There was a growing frustration at himself where the guilt of his past used to be. All these things that he didn't know about Marco should've been known years ago, because he knew deep in his gut that if he hadn't been so good at avoiding his problems, they would've been amazing friends sooner. Now he was finding himself trying to know as much about the boy to make up for it and Sasha was actually being a good person and not gossiping for once.

 

“Yeesh, if looks could kill,” She laughed, kicking her feet in hilarity.

 

Jean mimicked her laughter to make her shut up, but he didn't say anything back. He was tired and really wanted to go home now before the rest of her classmates returned from wherever the hell they were at. And if Connie saw them together, he'd probably know something was up. The last thing Jean wanted to do was interfere even more with their love story. He'd done his part and couldn't do any more for the girl who was now digging her finger up her gums to scrap of excess muffin that'd gotten stuck there.

 

_God, help this child._

 

“Alright, I think I should go now,” He announced, standing up and immediately feeling his back slouch, “Call me if you need a movie marathon tonight.”

 

She stood up and walked with him to the door, quiet and thoughtful before asking, “Do you think he loves me back, Jean?”

 

He stopped at the door and fidgeted. Just because he was into so many romantic and grossly mushy things, it didn't mean he was good at knowing what love looked like in real life. He wished he could give her a reassuring answer, but instead he shrugged, “I dunno, Sash. I've been told I'm dense, so I'm the last person you should be asking.”

 

“Yeah, guess you're right. I hope I don't need that marathon later.”

 

Jean took one of the muffin's she was carrying like a baby and held it up, “To canceled plans.”

 

She grinned and grabbed one too, bumping it with his, “To canceled plans.”

 

\--------------------

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

_Turning fourteen was like being second in line in a prison's cafeteria, waiting to receive your crummy food but eating the whole thing nonetheless because you only get fed twice a day. Except instead of food, when you're fourteen, you're given more body changes and blemishes that make you wonder what it was like to have clear skin, and there was nothing you could do but to take it. And that's why Jean wanted to cancel the birthday party he and his mother had planned together, but by the time he'd figured those feelings out it was already too late._

 

_He was in the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror with a horrible look on his face. It'd been a year already since his mother made him join Mikasa's old track team, talking about how it's good for his growth and development. She'd been right, since he grew a lot more and slimmed down considerably, but all that sweat and crying had clogged up his pores and made his face oily. So it didn't matter if he was no longer a chubby kid, he hated having zits way more than anything._

 

_“Jean?” He heard his mother calling from behind the door as he turned the water faucet on, “Jean,_ qu'est-ce que tu fais _?”_

 

_“I'm not doing anything! Just-just give me a sec!”_

 

_“Everyone has been waiting for over a sec for you, so hurry it up."_

 

_“Ok, yeah.”_

 

_He popped open the face cleanser his mother had bought him months ago, it didn't actually do much to clear his face, but the sweet smell it had made him feel like it did. When the water turned from the running faucet was warm enough, he quickly splashed his face and smeared a large glob of the product on his fingers. It was refreshing to feel the small exfoliating balls rubbing against his skin, but his discomfort lingered._

 

_All of his friends were going through puberty as well, and yet they still looked... alright. Definitely better than him. Sasha had a mouth full of metal now and she'd cried so much when the dentist told her there were certain foods she couldn't eat, but then days later they found her breaking those rules without a single care. Connie, deciding he was getting too tall to have a cloud for hair, shaved it all off. He said he didn't really like the new look, but it felt more free. Jean just thought he looked like an egg._

 

_Eren had grown a bit more, too, and also his hair. He was the first to sport a patchy goatee and impressive armpit hair. Even the hair on his tan legs and arms became thicker. And on the opposite side of the spectrum, Armin had actually became more feminine. His blond hair almost reached his shoulders – and that's about the only place hair was growing out of – and he got thinner, growing only a couple of inches since last year. Sometimes he talked about his insecurities, thinking he wasn't developing right, but then Mama Mikasa would step in and try to make him feel better._

 

_Too bad it never actually worked. She was everything the boys wanted to be: strong, muscular, pimple-free, cool and attractive. All those sports clubs she was in when they were younger had payed off in her growth and Jean envied her as much as he envied his friends they'd made last year in seventh grade._

 

_Annie, Bertholdt and Reiner were part of a new human species like Mikasa – or at least that's how it seemed. Annie had many similarities to Mika, except she was short and even more frightening, but there was a sarcastically funny side to her that'd make you want her approval. The boys were in a different ball game – one was already buff and the other had the height of a house. It made Jean secretly feel just the tiniest bit better that they also had skin problems too, though._

 

_And then there was Krista. They'd all met her when she moved in this school year, and almost everyone had mistaken her for Armin, adding fuel to his low self-esteem bonfire. She was shorter than anyone Jean had ever met and nicer, too, but even Krista fell prey to puberty and non-existent confidence. Her parents didn't allow her to shave her legs or underarms, so during gym class she suffered through the summer heat in sweatpants and long sleeved shirts._

 

_“Somehow I feel better now,” Jean said to himself as he pat dried his face with the bottom of his shirt._

 

_The thumping of music continued playing way too loudly as he quickly put on a small layer of lotion on his clean face. He could hear lots of familiar voices downstairs, laughing, yelling, insulting one another with friendliness... and somewhere hidden in that sea of noise he knew Marco Bott was adding to it because his mom thought they were good friends and sent him an invitation. Jean had been too afraid to explain why he couldn't have Marco there, so he'd kept his mouth shut._

 

_Seventh and eighth grade had separated the two. Jean rarely saw him, Daz or even Thomas since they were split off into trailers and non-trailers and he felt bittersweet about that. On one hand, he didn't have to worry about being unreasonably flustered and mean to someone he liked – and he was beginning to hope that the lack of contact would end this long and painful crush of his. That was unlikely though, because going so long without seeing Marco made his nerves and heart work extra hard and they haven't even seen each other yet._

 

_Jean gave himself one good look before heading out. His re-dyed hair wasn't sticking out from all over the place for the moment and he was wearing his favorite checkered shirt with beige shorts that were getting too big for his slimming waist. He frowned at himself again before opening the bathroom door and heading to greet his friends._

 

_“There's the birthday boy!!”_

 

_Jean jumped to the quick greeting, looking down the stairs to see Sasha sitting on the foot of the stairs next to Connie with a big smile on that brace-face. Her yellow shirt was already stained with red punch on her chest and Jean noticed how Connie kept looking at it, probably thinking she was gross and needed to clean it._

 

_He could feel his nerves acting up again as he started walking to them. Being the center of attention was nice, but today was different because it was_ his _day and although he only wanted the party for presents and money, he still cared about the way he looked and how his guests would talk about it after it was over. Not that it was supposed to be anything big or memorable, but still._

 

_“Where have you been?” She asked as the two stood up, “We've been waiting for you for like an hour!”_

 

_“I wasn't gone for that long, stop exaggerating.”_

 

_Connie gave him a smack on the back when he reached them, “Happy birthday, man. If you need to take a long crap again, we'll cover for you.”_

 

_“I wasn't taking a crap!”_

 

_“Hey!” Sasha swung one of her noodle arms up, “Come look at all the stuff you got! You're gonna freak!”_

 

_Before he could even agree, he found himself being pulled by the arm with a sweaty Sasha hand. Connie slowly trailed behind them and Jean almost noticed how down he looked. Almost. He still wasn't good at distinguishing facial expressions._

 

_They ran through the living room where he was ambushed by more friends and kept getting asked why he was the last to show up at his own party. Sasha had given up on rescuing him when she saw the junk food on the dinner table, making Connie yell, “Again?!” from behind. Jean's mind quickly diverted itself from his pimple problem when he realized no one really cared, so he happily laughed and talked with his classmates before getting pulled once again._

__

_This time it was Reiner who had taken him, his hand was as clammy as Sasha's had been, but his grip was much, much more firm. He smiled widely at Jean with pink cheeks once they were in the safety of the kitchen – there weren't many kids there, but the ones who were present weren't people Jean was all that familiar with. Reiner gave him a big bear hug that threatened to crush all of his ribs and he started wondering how such a monster of a boy could have the heart of a little sister._

__

_“Reiner, what are you doing, I can't breathe!”_

__

_“Happy birthday, Jeanbo!”_

__

_He gasped as Reiner let him down, feeling his ears burning, “Where did you hear that name?”_

__

_“Your mom kept telling us stories about you when she was putting food on the table. She kept switching from English to French, but I know I heard 'Jeanbo' lots of times in there,” He shrugged and looked down as if he were disappointed that she went back upstairs to give Jean the 'unsupervised' party he'd been begging for, “But anyway, glad you could finally make it. What took you so long? You got diarrhea or something?”_

__

_“No,” He hissed, “I just – I had to fix my hair.”_

__

_“Krista's around here somewhere. You could've just asked her to help. She probably would've finished in ten minutes and made it look way better than that.”_

__

_Jean shoved him, but the beef cake didn't even budge, “Shut up, it looks fine. So where's Bertholdt?”_

__

_“Heh, he should be here any minute now.”_

__

_Jean straightened up and leaned against a counter, “I thought you two came together.”_

__

_“Nah, his parents wanted to bring him themselves, so they – oh, speak of the devil! There he is!”_

__

_Right on cue, they watched as the lanky boy slowly walked in the kitchen, looking as if he wasn't sure this was the right house or people he knew. When he finally caught sight of his friends, his face didn't change from its morbid expression. It could've been due to how he just came in his house without knocking or waiting to be invited in – Jean had thought it was too troublesome to keep opening and closing the door, so he'd put a sign up saying to 'come right on in!'._

__

_Jean mentally laughed at the way Bertholdt always looked like he wasn't in control of his growing limbs, but today he was paying more attention to what he was wearing. It was over eighty-five degrees outside and he was dressed in jeans and a zipped up sweater. Sweat was sliding down his naturally round face as he suspiciously shuffled next to Reiner._

__

_“Ha-Happy birthday, Jean,” He nervously said, refusing to make eye contact. Reiner went into a fit of giggles from in between them._

__

_“Bert, what on earth are you wearing? And why do you look like that?”_

__

_“He's carrying your present,” Reiner said, laughing at his sweaty friend._

__

_Jean looked at the tall boy, but found him carrying nothing. He was just standing there, apologizing with his dark eyes as he tucked his hands inside the pockets of his fuzzy sweater. He'd usually wear that face after they were all done looking at dirty magazines at Reiner's house, because unlike the other two, Bertholdt still wasn't comfortable with himself about liking other boys – except sometimes he would borrow those magazines with shame... and then it clicked._

__

_“Wait,” Jean whispered, “did you guys bring me_ that _?”_

__

_“Yeah, we did, no need to thank us. It's my dad's favorite and he'd kill me if he found out I gave it to you, so you better take care of it.”_

__

_“Wow, you guy's really shouldn't have, but you know you could've just wrapped it up and put it in the pile of presents over there,” He said, pointing in the direction of the dining room. He wasn't sure how he felt about getting their gift._

__

_“We didn't know if you were going to open them in front of everyone,” Bertholdt said as he wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, “and since only a few us know you're... we didn't want to accidentally out you.”_

__

_“Oh, right, but that would've been hilarious probably. Here, give it to me so you can get out of that damn sweater. Just looking at you makes me feel like I'll get heat stroke.”_

__

_“Are you sure? Where'll you put it?”_

__

_He thought for a second, “I'll tuck it in my pants and then head upstairs alone. If my mom sees the two of us in my room together, she'll think we were up to no good.”_

__

_“Alright.”_

__

_Reiner positioned himself in front of the two boys in an attempt to block any prying eyes, but nobody in the kitchen had been paying any attention to them. They were all giddy about being in an 'unsupervised' party and free to badly flirt with one another to care about much else at the moment._

__

_Once the magazine was out of Bertholdt's hold, he let out a sigh of relief and shuffled out of his thick cotton sweater, tying it around his waist. But now Jean was feeling the weight of worry on his shoulders as he slid the book in the front of his pants against his skin and boxers. He didn't want anyone to accidentally bump into him, and with the amount of kids in his home, that possibility was way too high. He should've told his mother not to invite so many people._

__

_“Jean, you diva, where the hell have you been?” He heard the backyard door slide open and out came Eren, flushed from the heat outside, “Oh, hey Bert, he Rei. We're back here, come on.”_

__

_“Actually, I need to go upstairs real quick.”_

__

_“What? No way man, you've made us wait long enough.”_

__

_“But it's urg--”_

__

_He felt the third pair of slimy hands on his arm that day, tugging him away and making his panic increase. Eren was pulling him to where he'd just came out of and his other two friends were staring at one another, unsure about what to do as they followed. He wanted to ask for their help, but Jean has known them long enough to know they wouldn't be able to come up with a solution so quickly._

__

_There were about nine people in the backyard, now twelve. Some were off in a corner laughing with soda in their hands like the way old people held beer and there was a couple sitting next to his mother's garden, making googly eyes at one another. He knew the girl, Hannah, from his science class, but didn't recognize the boy._

__

_The people he_ did _know were in a circle in the middle of his yard, waiting for him with different expressions on their faces._

__

_“I thought you were never going to show up,” Mikasa said as she closed in with a hug, “Happy birthday.”_

__

_Armin came next, giving him a playful frown at his tardiness before repeating the same thing. He hadn't expected Annie – who'd been quietly hanging off to the side – to wish him a happy birthday too, but he found it oddly sweet that she had even decided to come since she wasn't a fan of loud places. Krista bounced away from Eren's side to give Jean a peck on the cheek. Her strawberry lip gloss felt sticky when he tried rubbing it off._

__

_“We brought you a little something,” Eren wickedly grinned when they were done with their greetings._

__

_Mikasa and Armin sighed, looking tired with disapproval that only made Jean's stomach churn. It was something they did often when Eren thought he was doing something good but really just put everyone in trouble._

__

_“Actually, consider this just Eren's present. We got you something... decent,” Armin said, scratching his blond head, “And we had absolutely nothing to do with what he got you.”_

__

_“Wha? I came to you two for advice and you said--”_

__

_“We said no, you complained, and then we said to do whatever you want,” Mika interrupted, but it had no affect on Eren's mood._

__

_“Same difference, anyways, about the present,” He held his hand out to Krista, and she quickly dug in her purple purse with a million zippers and pockets with frantic hands, “don't let anybody catch you with it.”_

__

_Jean looked at Reiner and Bertholdt, the one's who had almost said the exact same thing Eren just did earlier, with disbelief and they looked just as curious as him. Eren couldn't have possibly gotten him another triple X magazine, right? There was just no way his friends could think he was that big of a--_

__

_“Ta-da!” Eren yelled as Krista finished shoving the DVD's against his chest. Mikasa slapped his shoulder for him to shut up and to be more discrete._

__

_“You've got to be fucking kidding me.”_

__

_“I know, cool right? I bet you're wondering how I found this old gem,” Eren fanned himself with the first porno he'd ever watched, the one that'd made him hate those types of movies in the first place, “But let's just say I had to sniff a bunch of dust for it. The other one though, that's a new one since I know you're not into girls.”_

__

_“Eren, could you be anymore fucking loud? I don't think the entire fucking state has heard you yet,” Jean snapped, looking around to see if anyone was sharpening their pitchforks yet._

__

_“Oh, relax, nobody cares,” He held it out for Jean to take, but he didn't move. He stared at it as if Eren were handing him a bag full of roaches, but since he didn't want anyone to get the chance to see what kind of movies they were, he finally snatched it from his fingers and tucked it in the back of his pants. In his mind, he was punching Eren in the face repeatedly for making his situation worse._

__

_Bertholdt cleared his throat, starting to sweat a lot more now, “Y-You should really put them away, Jean. Just in case you trip or something and everything – and the movies fall out.”_

__

_From the other side of the circle, Reiner was silently laughing, covering his mouth with his hand at how hard he wanted to bark it all out. Jean didn't know why he found it so damn funny, and he was beginning to wonder if his friends saw him as some big fucking pervert. If they did, he'd have to set them straight and remind them just who was giving him all this crap._

__

_Jean gave out a long, deep sigh, “Yeah, I know. I'll be back in a sec.”_

__

_“Don't take too long again,” Eren joked, but he didn't respond. He just wanted to get this over with so he could enjoy his birthday._

__

_As he started walking to the house, he could hear Annie questioning what Reiner found to be so hilarious, but the boy only responded with an exaggerated howl. A quick flare of anger swelled up inside of Jean when he was opening the door, slamming it from behind and then feeling that burst of rage dissolve once he was in the cool air of the kitchen with a stranger's familiar eyes on him._

__

_Marco stared at him in surprise, leaning against the cabinet he'd been on moments ago, then gave him a small smile, “Hey, uh, happy birthday, Jean,” He timidly said, lips red with the punch in his hands._

__

_Of course – of fucking course – he just_ had _to be the first guy he walked into while trying to go to the safety of his room. Marco Bott, the angel of puberty. This guy had grown more than any of the others, allowing his lean muscles to stand out even more. His freckles grew in number as well, making his boyish face keep that cuteness and friendliness Jean liked. He'd always sneak looks his way during the rare times he saw Marco in the lunchroom and seeing so much of him this close was bad for his emotions._

__

_“Ehr, yeah, you too.”_

__

_“Oh, thanks, but it's not my birthday today,” He giggled, looking cautious and uncertain for laughing at the hot head._

__

_“Aha, ri-right... right.”_

__

_If it'd been another day, in a different situation, he would've died of mortification or maybe even tried to save himself, but half his mind was concentrated on the way one of the DVD's were beginning to slide down his butt. The other half was contemplating whether or not he should make a run for it while holding on to the presents, not caring if it seemed like he was about to shit and puke at the same time._

__

_But his heart wanted to stay and be around Marco, knowing fully well he didn't deserve to feel that way towards someone who was as kind as him. Jean stopped himself from wanting too much before allowing his hate to take over again._

__

_“So, are you enjoying--”_

__

_“I gotta go.”_

__

_Jean cut him off, giving him a contradicting look that said he really wanted to stay, but from Marco's perspective it just looked like Jean was telling him to accept his sudden fleeing, so he did. And with a tight smile, Marco nodded and looked away. When they were in fifth and sixth grade, Jean had lost count of how many times the boy had tried to be friends with him, and now as they were getting older, Jean could tell Marco had given up and didn't care anymore._

__

_He felt a pang of hurt in his chest as he stomped towards the front of the house where the staircase was at, growing angrier and angrier at the situation his friends had put him in and for just being himself in general. He bumped into whoever was in his way, glaring at anyone who didn't take the hint and fucked off._

__

_“Hey, where are you going birthday boy?”_

__

_He heard Sasha first, then felt her sticky hands whirl him around. The movies would've fallen out right then if he hadn't jutted his gut out, “Can you not right now, Sash?”_

__

_“Whoa. What's wrong?”_

__

_His eyes wandered to the kitchen, but then he snapped himself out of it, “Nothing, just let go.”_

__

_With intended force, he released himself from her grip on his arm and left running upstairs, leaving her confused and worried. He could feel a few stares on his body from the people who'd caught the tone of his voice, but he didn't dare look back at them. His eyes just watched the ugly colored carpet as he took one quick step after the other, feeling ridiculous at the way he was holding onto his belly and spine._

__

_Once he was at the top where no one was able to hear or see him, he softly cursed at himself. He hated being emotional and complicated, and he hoped to god he'd be able to have some kind of control over that when he was older. But for now, he really needed to go to his room to hide the stupid presents and to silently fume at the things he knew weren't actually his friends fault._

__

_He was only able to take one step forward before he heard the bathroom right across from his face open. It had never crossed his mind to tell his guests not to go upstairs – since it sounded like common fucking courtesy not to do that – but when he saw who was coming out, he understood what kind of person would do such a thing._

__

_Daz, in his own little world, didn't see him as he hummed out of the restroom, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand and turning the light off with the other. Jean wasn't able to move out of his way fast enough, and Daz finally sensing his presence, only seemed to move even quicker as he jumped at him in fear. Their heads clashed together, eyes closing with awaiting pain, and in an attempt to keep the objects from falling from his pants, Jean clutched onto the other boy's shoulder and pushed him away._

__

_That only caused Daz to hold back onto him for balance, and they both ended up falling sideways. Jean could feel the plastic from the movies detaching from his sweaty skin and spilling onto the floor as he landed on the right side of his body. The magazine had slipped down his shorts when he put all that force into pushing him away, just like his pride. He was pretty sure that's when all the luck he'd been given at birth had finally ran out on him._

__

_Because the loud music from below wasn't as loud upstairs, his mom had heard the thud of their bodies from her room and rushed towards them in an instant. Daz was already sitting up, rubbing his head and staring at the contents laying on the floor with as much shock as his face could create when she got to them from down the hall. Jean didn't have the energy to sit up, so he remained where he was, caught and ready to be gutted like a fish._

__

_“Dude...is this...gay stuff?” Daz asked, unable to read the situation._

__

_From his position, Jean could only feel his mother silently hovering over them. He saw one of her pink socks come into view, catching Daz's attention as she offered a hand to pull the scrawny kid up. Jean took advantage of their whispered exchange to crawl to the corner of the hallway. The prickling of tears began to poke at his eyes when Daz quietly left._

__

_“_ Chéri, _come here,” The sweet sound of his mother's voice made him want to cry even more._

__

_Without saying a word, he turned around and stood up, unable to look her in the eye as they walked back to her room. His face heated up when he saw she'd tucked the confiscated items underneath her arm, then drained when he knew what kind of talk they were about to have._

__

_When they entered her room the instant smell of her lavender candles filled up his nose, and much like him, she liked to have her curtains drawn for privacy. Yet the color of the cloth was a pretty mixture of beige and and light yellow, giving the room a warm feel to it unlike his._

__

_She sat on her flower bed-sheets, waiting for him to do the same as he closed the door to her room. He pretended not to notice how she hid the items on the other side of her body or how her face was sad and apprehensive. Jean sat without really wanting to, twisting his fingers every which way until she figured out how to tell him he could no longer live in her home... or at least that's what he had been expecting when she first opened her mouth to speak._

__

_“Did someone,” She started, hesitating for a moment, then starting again, “Did someone give this to you as a joke, honey?”_

__

_Jean stiffly shook his head, feeling the first drops of tears pooling in his eyes. There was no point in lying to her, not with how easy to read his face must be._

__

_“Ok,” She said to herself, rubbing her hands on her thighs, “Ok, ok... it's-it's a little funny... The other day I heard in the morning radio show about a mother in this situation. She was asking for advice from these stranger's and the whole time I was thinking 'why would she do that? She should just speak to her child' but now... now I understand.”_

__

_Her bubbly giggle made his heartache. She was still same old mom, rambling nonsense before getting to the point, and for some reason that made the water works begin. No matter how hard he had tried to accept himself, the words she had spoken years ago about wanting grandchildren and for him to have a good wife ringed like a bell in his mind every now and then. And right now it was all he could hear._

__

_He felt her thick arms wrap him up and press his face against her soft bosom, stroking his hair with love and comfort._

__

_“Baby, don't cry,” She said with her voice cracking, “it makes me think you thought I wasn't going to love you anymore.”_

__

_He inhaled her perfume as a hiccup escaped his lips, “I-I'm sorry, mo-om.”_

__

_“You could sprout six legs and I'd still love you. You could turn into a pair of dirty socks and I'd still love you. You could be anything in the world and I'd still love you,” She kissed the top of his head, “so don't apologize to me - or anyone else for that matter - about who you are. It's ok, it's really ok.”_

__

_He nodded, but kept crying anyways. This wasn't how he wanted her to find out – he never really wanted her to know – but now he understood that that'd been impossible. The universe had been cruel to reveal his secret like that on his birthday, making him hate the date even more, but maybe it'd been for the best. Now he didn't have to worry about losing the only family he had, so damned be the party downstairs and rest of the world outside for all he cared._

_~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~_

Jean awoke to the sound of his phone buzzing against his cheek. The warm feeling in his heart transferred from his dream to reality, making him think twice about throwing the device against the wall so no one could ever contact him while he was sick. He could feel moistness on his other cheek as he prepared his eyes to check his phone. 

“Who the fuck texted me at this ungodly... oh, it's only eleven,” He turned to his stomach, unlocking his phone and going to his messages. 

Apparently during his slumber, Sasha had sent him exactly eleven messages. The first seven were incoherent, but the rest made him flinch. 

**From: Thing One \--THOSE WERE PRACTICE MESSAGES AND YOU JUST FAILED KIRSTEIN \--Wait, I can just call if anything goes wrong lol sorry my bad, rest easy**

She texted him an hour later. 

**From: Thing One** **\--Guess wohs drunk at svenen in the after noon????**

Then twenty minutes later. 

**From: Thing One** **\--Guess who thwe up all over Con Con at sevnen in the after noon**

There were no more messages after that. 

_I'm sure she's fine... yeah, she's fine. She would've called if something bad happened... right?_

Jean left her a voicemail just in case she was in the middle of talking to Connie right now. He didn't want to interrupt anything if they were clearing the air. 

He tucked his phone underneath his pillow and wiped the remaining tear away from the corner of his eye. He didn't like it when he was able to remember certain dreams, but this one... he liked this one. Back then while it was happening, he most definitely didn't like the situation, but his fourteenth birthday was what started his growth on being fine with who he was. 

And it was thanks to that accident with Daz that he'd been able to cry once again to his mom a week later about how the boy he liked liked someone else instead of crying alone in his room. Jean remembers being both happy _and_ devastated when he'd seen Marco shyly holding hands with a guy after school one day – happy because never in his wildest dreams did he think Marco would like boys too and devastated because it would never be him. Not that he felt he deserved to be someone so close to him. 

High school had been the perfect place to finally see almost nothing of Marco. Avoiding him became so easy that it had pained him, but this way he had been able to keep his mouth shut and let the other start a new school year with a bully-free experience. And it'd been the place Jean had been able to date to forget and ignore his own burning questions and unneeded comments that came from deep within the back of his head, pretending he never felt a thing when his other friends would invite Marco to their hang outs. 

Jean froze, “Wait a minute, wait a _fucking_ minute... just when in the hell did I ever stop liking Marco?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I did good on this chapter. I gotta admit, while I was writing this I had the worst writers block ever, but then I read that one post on tumblr that said it's ok to be indulgent with your writing so that's what I did. I think.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! :D


	16. Glittering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of undressing. Lots of peeking. Lots of shy.

The gym is hot. There's droplets of sweat on the floor too small to see and a particular body eager to get moving again after taking a break from his workout.

 

Marco was starring at the cocky grin on Jean's face, feeling none of the annoyance he felt with other's he's fought before. It could be because he knew Jean had no idea what he was getting himself into, and he wanted to see just how big of a fight he'd put up, but it could also be because Marco was so quickly rewarded with sparring against someone after his long absence.

 

And there was just a _tiny_ feeling of pity at the back of his head. Not because of their skill levels - since Marco could control how hard he'd go against him - but because of Jean himself. The boy had refused to change out of his jeans and hoodie and into one of their Lost and Found active wear, and since the forecast had said it would be well under sixty degrees, Marco _knew_ this stubborn mule was cold and advised him to at least warm up first.

 

But he didn't. Of course. So now the chances of Jean winning were all that much lower.

 

"Ready?"

 

From outside of the mats padding the floor, Annie was standing and waiting for the two to ready their positions. Marco bent his knees, bringing his hands up to protect his face and moving his dominant foot back for a solid stance. Just because Jean had no training in martial arts and was limited in his movements, it didn't mean he would so easily let his guard down against him. For all he knew, Jean would throw one of his famous Red Lobster punches in a rageful fit.

 

"We're ready," Marco confirmed.

 

"How about we make a friendly wager?" Jean asked from a few feet across. He had no battle ready stance, but his eyes were on Marco's fists.

 

"Oh? Like what?"

 

"Five... four..." Annie started the countdown, ignoring their chatter.

 

"Winner gets to pick the costumes."

 

"Three... two..."

 

"Ok. And loser has to pay for dinner later."

 

"Wha--"

 

"One."

 

Jean glared at her for cutting him off before concentrating on Marco, slowly taking a few steps forward. The sound of his feet unsticking from the mat was the only audible noise in the gym. Jean had been reluctant to remove his shoes and socks when he'd been told how delicate the material was, but it hadn't been enough of a reason for him to chicken out of the fight. But now as he was getting closer, he looked like he was walking on a thin rope going from one towering building to another - terrified and regretful.

 

"Are you _laughing_ at me?" Jean barked.

 

Marco hadn't moved a muscle yet. He had wanted Jean to make the first move to even out the playing field, but that wasn't about to work. The frustrated boy stopped his slow pace, now waiting for the other to put some effort into their little fight. No words had to be said for Marco to know he had no idea what he was doing. So he decided to guide him.

 

"Sorry, I was just thinking about something," Marco motioned for him to come closer with his hands, "Come here."

 

"You'll just throw me over your shoulder if I do that," He accused, throwing his hands up to guard his face.

 

"No, come here. You have a better chance at beating me if you come at me first."

 

He decided not to mention how no matter what moves he _did_ come at him with, they'd all be wrong. His instructor had told him the same thing when he first got into the sport. At first he hadn't understood what he meant, but then when he got his ass handed to him over and over again, the confusion faded. BJJ was like playing chess, and right now Jean had no idea what the name of the game was even called while Marco could play it in his sleep.

 

"No way, not falling for that. How about you come here first?"

 

"If I do, this'll be over in two seconds. Do you want to lose that quickly?"

 

"Ha! You know, Reiner has taught me a thing or two in wrestling, so I think it'll last longer than that."

 

"So four seconds?"

 

Jean frowned, sending Marco a menacing whisper, "I'm going to kick your freckled ass until there're no more freckles on it, Bott."

 

"It's good to have dreams, Kirschtein," Marco whispered back.

 

He searched for an opening while Jean continued to throw insults... if you'd call them that, but decided to give him one last chance, "Just-Just come here. If I find what kind of costumes I'm thinking of in my head, you're not going to - _oof!_ "

 

It'd been smart (and sneaky) of Jean to have ran into him at full force while he'd been speaking. Those speedy legs of his were no joke, but Jean still didn't know what he was doing because although he had successfully - and painfully - pinned Marco underneath him, he was panicking. His rough hands were trying to hold Marco's thicker wrists down while Marco tried shrimping out from the weight of his body. And it didn't take long before he was rolling them to switch positions.

 

Marco forced himself in between Jean's legs - this time it was harder to do since he wasn't drunk and noodly - while making sure he wasn't too forceful with his actions. And by the look on Jean's bewildered and flushed face, he could tell he was wondering what the hell was going on. Too bad he hadn't told him sooner that this type of intimacy was just how the sport went.

 

Next, he ducked down and shoved his head onto Jean's sternum, sliding his way up until he was at the crook of his neck. The smell of his cologne and shampoo hit his nose in one go, but Marco didn't allow himself to think anything of it because then he'd be in trouble.

 

_I have to make him tap out as soon as possible._

 

He didn't want to hurt Jean too badly, so he searched for his hands and decided he'd twist one like before. Except Jean was being really good at fighting back. His hands were tugging at Marco's shirt in a weak attempt to get him off, but all that did was make it ride up and expose half his toned stomach. Those even sneakier hands of his saw a golden opportunity and took it.

 

In a matter of seconds, Marco was laughing against Jean's neck, fighting his friend's hands that were tickling his sides.

 

"H-Hey, this is allowed right?!" Jean screamed to Annie.

 

"In a real fight, no. But you need this advantage so I'll allow it."

 

"That's fine," Marco snarled, noticing small goosebumps rise on Jean's skin.

 

He didn't give himself time to wonder if he'd creeped Jean out. Instead, he shot up to sit on his knees with Jean's legs still on either side of him, tearing his hands away in the process. He could tell how uncomfortable the other was about their position and instantly started squirming away. But not too far, just enough to let him escape.

 

"So," Jean huffed, breathless and pink as he crawled to a safer distance, "How do we determine a winner? Is punching allowed?"

 

"No punching, no elbowing, no groin kicking either," Annie said from the side, face glued to her phone, "You win by making the other tap out."

 

"Ugh, why does that sound harder?"

 

Marco motioned for him to come again, too busy to control his thoughts to speak. He remained sitting on the floor and wondered if it'd be best to purposefully lose. It'd be a shame if Jean spend the rest of the day annoyed or angry that he didn't win. He could take all the harmless teasing he'd throw at him anyways... but Jean would probably notice and get angrier at his dishonesty.

 

_Sorry, Jean_

 

Marco readjusted the compression tights underneath his gym shorts and started walking on his knees towards Jean. The bubbling adrenaline of a match was hot on his skin and the excitement of being able to mess around with his friend like this made him feel like they were getting that much closer.

 

Noticing his seriousness, Jean pushed his sweater's sleeves up his elbows and brushed his hair out of his eyes again. His posture was much more defensive than when they first started but he didn't look like much of a threat walking on his knees, either.

 

"I have a question," Jean stated.

 

"What's your question?"

 

"How do I make you tap out without _knocking_ you out?"

 

Marco smiled, "Come here and I'll show you."

 

"You're on a fucking roll today," Jean's tone dripped with irritability, looking away for a quick second to roll his eyes, but that was enough time for Marco to sprint up and get behind him.

 

In a heartbeat, he had wrapped his legs around Jean's body, causing the two of them to fall backwards like how he'd planned. The pressure of Jean's body on top of him had almost knocked the wind out of his lungs, but Marco had done this enough times to control the muscles around his gut to not let that happen.

 

His right arm carefully coiled around Jean's neck, slowly putting more pressure onto it and then with his left hand sliding to the back of his head, Marco pushed his elbows together.

 

He could feel Jean arching his back and trying to pry his freckled arm from his neck, but it didn't work.

 

"Tap out," Marco grunted, feeling the pressure of his body heavy on his chest, "If you don't, you'll pass out."

 

When he didn't comply, Marco dug his heel on the inside of Jean's thigh. He knew from experience just how awful and unpleasant that felt, and thankfully it worked. Jean tapped his forearm twice before Marco let go, taking in a deep breath as his friend rolled off of him.

 

"Fucking hell," Jean splat down on his stomach like a starfish and tried talking and swallowing air at the same time, "Movies are a lieee."

 

"Ah?" Marco huffed, back cooling down thanks to the mat below him.

 

"The fighting. The fighting scenes. They always last for like ten minutes straight, but _fuck_ that. That shit's impossible."

 

Marco laughed, wiping sweat from his forehead and nodding in agreement. He was happy Jean hadn't put up more of a fight towards the end there. One of his gym mates hadn't tapped out once when their instructor had had them in a similar choke hold and the guy went to sleep right in front of everyone. They'd been taught there was no shame in knowing when you've reached your limit and he was relieved Jean knew his... in this situation.

 

"You did really good," Marco found himself saying, looking at Jean, but the other wasn't looking at him. Apparently his tattoo was more interesting.

 

"I would've won if I'd been wearing something stretchier."

 

"We offered you something stretchier."

 

"Yeah, yeah," Jean flopped onto his back, chest heaving up and down as his hands rested on his belly, "You said something about the second winner paying for dinner?"

 

Marco pushed down his urge to smile like a dope, "Mhm."

 

"Ok, but I've only got like seven dollars. I'm just letting you know we're going to be eating out from the dollar menu or something."

 

"So three burgers each?"

 

Jean turned to him, hair hanging down to the side to reveal his intense eyes. Even in a worn out gym like this with horrible lighting, they still looked so pretty, "Whoa, how much food do you think I eat? Are you kidding, three burgers are like an appetizer for me."

 

"Then why didn't you finish the gas station ones from last, last weekend?"

 

"Shut up, you know I was nervous that day."

 

"Ok fine, since you're paying, you can get four."

 

"No, I get five and you get one."

 

"That's not fair."

 

Jean gave him a smirk, "You never specified how much I had to feed you."

 

"Oh wait, do you want to go to Mike's? They've got real good cheap food and right now there's these winter dishes. It's like three bucks for a whole meal and free coffee if you're into that. It comes with small sides but it gets you full pretty fast."

 

"You sound like an advertisement."

 

Marco laughed with a shrug, "Well, I do work there."

 

"Oh really? Would you mind I went to bother - I mean visit - you like before?"

 

"Only if you promise not to get me fired again."

 

Jean gasped, "You said it wasn't my fault!"

 

"You can come whenever you want," He tenderly said to show he'd just been kidding, curling his toes against the floor, "just don't get violent with any of the costumers."

 

"Ahem," They heard Annie clearing her throat from the side, "Are you two done yet? I've got errands to run."

 

The boys scampered to their feet, looking as if they've just been caught doing something they shouldn't have and straightening their posture for the short girl.

 

"Isn't it too early to be closing?" Jean asked, pulling up his loose pants.

 

She didn't remove her eyes from her phone, "Technically, we're not even open right now. I just let you in because Marco said you two were going to fight."

 

"So what'd you think? I did pretty good didn't I?" Jean puffed out his chest, so sure of himself it hurt to watch because Marco already knew what kind of response she was going to give him, "I thought it would've been harder, but then my natural talent kicked in."

 

"Natural talent? You mean your tickling? Your fight was over before I finished liking a post of Facebook. Save your energy to kick your own ass if you come to find that that's how long you last in the sack."

 

"Yesh! Does everyone who goes to this gym just suddenly sprout a rude mouth? Who's teaching you kids this shit?"

 

"My father."

 

"I-I'll go change so we can get out of your hair," Marco said, leaving hem behind to argue.

 

He could feel the heat that had wanted to swim up his face disappear, embarrassed at how easily he had forgotten about his surroundings. Usually that only happened when he was busy appreciating a peaceful scenery, so he hoped this was the first and last time he got caught up in la la land because of Jean.

 

_Don't think about it._

 

With haste, Marco barged into the empty locker room and stripped out of his clothes. He enjoyed the feel of nothing touching his bare skin before reluctantly shoving on a normal pair of underwear and jeans. He sprayed himself with a good amount of body spray his mother had given to him, then slipping on his shirt and sweater.

 

His body was crying for a shower, but it was already five and he didn't want to keep Jean out too late since tomorrow was another school day. All he could do was roll on deodorant, wipe off his sweat and hope he didn't stink too badly.

 

When he finished popping his feet into his old boots and unwillingly shrugged on his thick jacket, he ran out and thanked Annie for letting them play for a while, telling her he appreciated it since they weren't exactly allowed to do that. She wasn't good with sincerity, so she kicked them out and locked herself inside to close.

 

The boys remained frozen on the sidewalk, permitting the wind to chill their skin. Marco hummed at how nice it felt, Jean following with an agreeable drone and deep inhale. One good thing about living in the country is how earthy and calming the air smelled.

 

"Are we driving separately?" Jean asked, looking down at the parking lot.

 

"Good question."

 

"We'll take your car," He decided, already walking towards the nearby Tahoe, "That way I can turn on the heater when you roll the damn windows down."

 

Marco bounced to his side, "I won't do that, not when you're still recovering from a cold. You make it sound like I have an addiction or something."

 

"Don't you?"

 

"No, I can control my habit."

 

"Oh, is that what you're calling it?" Jean visibly shivered as they split off to their respective sides of the car. Once Marco had unlocked the door and they were getting comfortable, he continued, "Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery. That's what all the experts on TV say."

 

"I'll admit to my problem if you admit to yours," He teased, not really thinking Jean had any but it was fun to rile him up because he always took the bait.

 

While Marco backed up and drove towards the street, Jean nagged him about what nasty habit he could possibly have since he was so perfect. Marco just shook his head at him, but at the same time he was thinking about how he really liked that part of Jean, the part where his confidence never seemed to bend or crack for anything or anyone.

 

_Maybe I could learn a thing or two from him..._

 

"Oh, I know what habit you have," Marco said when Jean was done listing his good parts, "Actually, I'm not sure if I'd call it a habit since it's involuntary."

 

"What is it?"

 

"Your face twitches a lot."

 

_... something other than being a little rude._

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

Almost thirty minutes after leaving the gym, they were still driving down to the only good Halloween store the town had to offer. There were one or two franchised and popular shops that'd pop out in empty buildings every year, but Marco didn't like going there. It was too expensive. Back when he was in middle school he learned of a better spot to pick his costumes thanks to an old friend.

 

Beside him Jean was purposefully fogging up the window, using his finger to draw ugly faces on it while he mindlessly sang along with the radio. Earlier he'd been lecturing Marco about how he better have not forgotten about their tutoring sessions just because he was working and going to the gym, but now he was off somewhere in his own world.

 

Marco's own mind had wondered as well, off to forbidden places he knew he should at least try to stay away from. He wondered if Jean was getting lonely at the thought of his new busy schedule, maybe even a little disappointed... and that wishful thinking alone warmed him up better than the heater blowing in his direction.

 

This fuzzy feeling was pure and snuggled up many cold and dark parts of his mind. And the calming atmosphere around them was something Marco could get used to. He never would have thought being around someone you got along with so well - and yet who was your opposite in many ways - could be so nice, so peaceful and so--

 

"Hey, look, I drew a dick on your window."

 

And so short.

 

"Thank you."

 

"I'll call it _He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named_ since you can't say dick."

__

"Or you could just give it your name. It'll carry the same meaning."

__

Jean leaned over to flick his ear, "I really need to have a word with Annie's dad."

__

"I'm just kidding, your name is much better than... _that_."

__

" _That_ he says," Jean snickered, looking outside, "So where are we going? We're not lost, are we?"

__

"Nope. We're going to Mini's Paradise."

__

"What's a Mini and why are we going to their Paradise? If we turn around now, we can still make it to Spirit a few miles back before it gets too late."

__

"Wait, but you haven't even given it a chance."

__

"Excuse me, but I like to shop at real Halloween places."

__

Marco pouted, "This is a real Halloween place." 

__

"Don't-Don't make that face."

__

"What face?" He turned to Jean and intensified his pout, "You mean this one?"

__

He grimaced, "Keep your eyes on the road, Marco."

__

"Ok, sorry, sorry. You should keep your eyes on the road too, though. I think you'll like it here."

__

This part of Trost was much more colorful than where they came from. Here, the brick walls seemed redder, sidewalks whiter, and advertisement free from graffiti. There were no chipped painted walls, no scary long roads of trees while you drive alone at night (because this area was more populated), and the people seemed more trustworthy. If they kept driving for a couple more hours or so, they'd reach Sasha's hometown, which was no wonder why it was nice here.

__

As Marco continued to drive, they passed lampposts with art from a nearby school. They were Halloween monsters or movie characters made out of paper mache and cardboard, maybe even plastic. Jean asked him to drive slower so he could get a better look, shoving his face to the window to read the words on the cards attached to the creations. He read allowed the names of the makers and the grade they were in. Most were in eighth.

__

"So unfair. Why didn't we get to do this?" 

__

"Our school couldn't even afford to buy new art supplies," Marco took a right into a packed shopping area, leaving the monsters behind.

__

"Oh, right. Well, if I were an art teacher I would've bought everything with my own damn money."

__

"Maybe you should be one then. Our schools needs people like that." 

__

"Never in a million years. I can't stand preteens. You, on the other hand, have the type of patience to deal with them." 

__

Marco paused at a stop sign, glancing at him before looking back at the street to make sure it was safe to continue driving, "Never in a million years. Preteens scare me. Do you remember how many fights broke out every week in seventh grade?" 

__

"Pfft! With muscles and skills like yours, nothing should scare you, you weenie." 

__

_I'll be taking that as a compliment_ , Marco proudly thought. 

__

They slowly drove by a cellphone store, a vegetarian restaurant, a FedEx and a florist before finally reaching Mini's Paradise at the corner. Marco had only been there very few times, but the place was a sight impossible to forget. It didn't look like much on the outside - with a pink and green sign welcoming them in a swirly font - but the inside was a different story. 

__

"That's the place?" Jean asked, already unbuckling himself while Marco looked for a spot to park. 

__

"Yeah. I know it doesn't look like a Halloween store, but it is... well usually it just has normal clothing, but during this time of year it's Halloween themed." 

__

"So you come here often?" 

__

"No, not really," Marco tried not to laugh at how that sounded like a lame pick-up line, "Do you remember Thomas? Thomas Wagner?" 

__

"Yeah, I remember him." 

__

"This is his grandma's place," He parked far from their destined location, since there were few spots to pick from, and eagerly unbuckled his own seat belt, "I really hope you like it." 

__

"For your sake, I better. And it better be cheap too, this neighborhood looks like the type to have expensive trash." 

__

"Ah, actually that's pretty much the only reason why I brought you here. Most of her stuff are recycled costumes that nobody's bought over the years. We have to look for those since they're the really cheap ones." 

__

"How cheap we talking?" 

__

"Ten, fifteen? Lowest I've seen is probably seven." 

__

"Nice. You should teach my mom how to smart-shop since she's got a hoarding problem." 

__

"Alright, next time I will. Free of charge." He promised, smiling at Jean's equally lighthearted grin. 

__

The boys shared an embarrassing giggle before getting out of the car, fixing their clothes and walking with purpose to escape the chilly wind blowing through their bones and messy hair. Because of the changing season, the sky was now beginning to darken as soon as six in the afternoon, making the temperature drop a few more degrees than when they had left the gym. 

__

"You sure they're still open? It looks kinda dark in there." 

__

"Yeah, they're open," Marco said, watching Jean sniff and rub his nose with a slim finger, "I think they keep the lights low on purpose." 

 

"Guess they don't care if customers think they're closed."

__

Marco let out an airy laugh, noticing small puffs coming out of their mouths. Somewhere on the horizon the sun was getting taken by the ground. The colors were probably thrown on the sky for people to remind themselves to take a small breather in their hectic lives, and today he wasn't one of those people. He had another view taking his attention. 

__

This one had soft pinks on the tip of their nose, an unordinary beige at the top of their head and a lovely plum color underneath their eyes. There was a sunset taking his breath away and yet reminding him to take one at the same time, and it was a shame the other didn't even know it. 

__

"It's cold," Jean complained, but Marco wasn't listening. 

__

He was thinking about how he'd always thought Jean was good looking even before they'd started talking. They were small, the things he had admired from a distance, small and yet lovely. He liked how clean Jean kept his eyebrow and how his forearms would look during summer when his veins popped with green like vines on a tree. He could admit Jean's presence was one that wouldn't go unnoticed, but he'd never thought too deeply about it before. 

__

"I wonder if it'll snow this year." 

__

He'd always been just as pretty as Armin or Krista, but now that he was getting to know Jean better, Marco noticed prettier parts of him that had nothing to do with physicality. He couldn't see Jean's voice or laughter, he couldn't put his sarcasm or dirty mouth in a box, and there was no way he could ever feel Jean's way of being with a touch of his fingers. And yet all of those things felt more real than the wind dancing in his hair. 

__

"S-So whatever happened to Thomas anyway? I stopped seeing him around before we went to high school," Jean said, staring at his feet while they continued to march. His ears were now pink, too. 

__

Marco fake coughed into his fist, stopping his gawking in order to not give himself away, "You don't-You don't know what happened?" 

__

"He's not dead, is he?" 

__

"No, nothing like that. You sure Daz never told you?" 

__

"We stopped talking a long time ago." 

__

"Oh," Marco slipped his hands inside his pockets, figuring out how to say what he thought had been known by the whole world already, "He moved far away from here, somewhere nice and private with my cousin." 

__

"Mina?" 

__

"Yeah, you knew here?" 

__

"I think we had the same third grade teacher. So they got married? And quit school?" 

__

"Yeah, they did... but first they had a baby. That number went up one last year." 

__

"That's funny, I thought I heard you say 'baby'." 

__

"I did." 

__

Jean started choking on his spit when they reached the store, earning a few stares from people walking by. He put a hand up to tell Marco to stay put until he was finished being shocked, "Thomas is a _father_?!" 

__

"Yup! Mina got pregnant the summer of eighth grade and they both dropped out soon after they found out." 

__

"But when did they even date?! When did they even find the time to...?" Jean's eyebrows bunched up, "Why the hell did they leave so quickly?" 

__

"I'm not sure. Lots of reasons probably. I think they just wanted to leave before she was born so people wouldn't stare." 

__

Jean's face softened like melted chocolate on a midsummer's day, "She? They had a baby girl?" 

__

"Yeah, her name's Tessa. The one year old is Maggie, but Mina says they call her Happy because that's all she knows how to say so far," Marco smiled as he spoke, remembering the day he went to go visit her at the hospital, "If you want I could show you pictures and tell you more about them when we go ea--" 

__

"Yeah! I mean, yeah yeah, sure," Jean sniffled but his hardening face wasn't fooling anyone, "Ok, anyways, let's go look at costumes." 

__

_What a big softy._

__

"Don't forget I'm picking." 

__

Pumpkin spice and cinnamon welcomed them as they stepped foot inside, along with the _ding!_ from the door's hanging bell. There were no workers in sight, most likely off somewhere in the back tagging clothes or on their break. It felt eerie that the store was completely empty of customers when the parking lot had been full. But the boys ignored it, being rapidly transfixed by all the homemade costumes stuffed inside such a small space. 

__

There were rows upon rows of different options they could choose from. Each rack had a sign in the same font as the one outside, some saying: _Movie Villain, Comic Book, Disney, Witches, Humor, 2T And Below_ , and more where their eyes couldn't quite reach. 

__

There were masks hanging on fake heads against the maroon walls, each one creepier than the last with hauntingly realistic features on most. They were placed so that they wrapped around the entire store, making them feel like they were being followed and watched.

__

On display in the middle of the room were Christmas lights on the floor with mannequin children in bizarre attire. One was dressed in what looked liked a completely black onsesie, but there were long and sharp ears on its head with no tail to indicate it was some sort of animal. The kid next to it was in a leather-like but faceless skin toned mask, dressed in a long dark cloak and vibrant red pants, giving off a vintage look that Marco remembered and loved the first time he'd came here. 

__

"Should I be afraid?" Jean asked, still wide-eyed about the masks. 

__

Marco moved towards the racks in the back, "Yes." 

__

"When you said a grandma owned the place, I was expecting it to be... cute." 

__

"But it's cool right? It gives off a Halloween-y vibe." 

__

"I think the word you're looking for is ' _disturbing_ '," Jean mumbled, following closely from behind, "What kind of costumes are you going to make us wear?" 

__

"Ever heard of mythical creatures?" 

__

"Seriously?" 

__

"Seriously," Marco squeezed through the racks and read each sign to find the category he had in mind. 

__

"But we're supposed to match." 

__

"We will. No matter what I choose it'll all fall under the same group." 

__

"I _guess_ , but that's not exactly what I had in mind. I was thinking more like Batman and Superman, cops and robbers, aliens and astronauts... stuff like that." 

__

Marco continued navigating through the ocean of cloth, speaking as he kept his eyes pealed with Jean still close behind, "I would've been fine dressing up as all of those things, but since I won the bet _you_ decided to make, I'm taking full advantage of the situation and making us being something interesting." 

__

"My ideas are interesting." 

__

"Of course, of course," Marco cooed, receiving a shoulder bump from his unhappy friend, "Don't be too mad. I have a very fitting idea for you." 

__

"It's not like a troll or demon, is it? Because I'll challenge you to however many fights it'd take for you to change your mind." 

__

"You think of yourself as scary things like that, Jean?" 

__

There was a brief but noticeable pause, "No, but I thought maybe-maybe you'd say that." 

__

"No trolls, no demons," He vowed, still searching but knowing Jean was looking up at him, "I've never actually seen anyone be this either. Think of it as a one-of-a-kind costume just for you." 

__

"... What is it?" 

__

Marco sprouted a smile when his eyes caught the tag he'd been looking for, "Dragon." 

__

__\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -_ _

__

"I-Is he alright in there?" 

__

"Yes, he's fine, thank you," Marco reassured the distressed worker for the third time already. 

__

She had popped out of the back of the store ten minutes ago, surprised to find two teenagers bickering with one another about the shiny costume in Marco's hand. When she had tried calming them down, they noticed ketchup smeared on the corner of her lip along with a chunk of meat stuck to her front teeth, revealing what she'd been so busy with. 

__

The boys had been too embarrassed for her to let her know she needed to clean herself, sharing a look before Jean snatched the costume and asked if they had a fitting room. 

__

Now he was cursing and whining in the tiny corner of the store, only shielded by two white walls and a velvet curtain that didn't properly reach either side. Marco was sitting on an antique ottoman, pretending he couldn't see snippets of Jean's skin flashing from within the dressing room and smiling at the worker to let her know everything was ok so she could go back to eating her lunch. 

__

"Why the _fuck_ do I have to be an ice dragon? You know I'm closer to fire more than any other damn element," He heard Jean groan as the sound of fabric running up skin momentarily peaked his interest, "I'm fiery, fierce _and_ hot. Why don't you understand that?" 

__

"I do understand, but like I mentioned earlier, your personality is more frigid. You're hostile, you give people icy stares and sometimes your words can be cold." 

__

"Flatter me more, why don't you?" 

__

Marco could feel the fear coming off the worker, no doubt lingering around to make sure a fight didn't break out, "Wait, I wasn't finished." 

__

"Oh, there's more? What's left to say? That my heart is made out of - _ngh_ \- out of frostbite? Shit, these leggings are slippery." 

__

"No, I wasn't going to say that. I was going to say that despite all of that, I also think you're very, very cool." 

__

The curtain violently flew off to the side before Jean stepped out, sending him some of that _ice_ , "At least make your compliments as long as your complaints. I gave you a whole list on our car ride." 

__

"Oh my," The worker stopped sounding afraid, putting a hand up to her small mouth at how surprised she was with the way Jean looked. 

__

Marco's eyes grew twice their size when he saw his friend. Jean's skin, although still a bit sickly, glowed thanks to the shine of the elastic fabric. His leggings had a pattern of white scales with turquoise and silver sprinkles that twinkled when his body took a step towards the only mirror in the shop. 

__

His shirt was also covered in the same sparkles, but it wasn't tight like his pants. It was light gray that blended back to white around his arms, and it flowed like the pirate costume they had borrowed and destroyed from the drama club. Except this one was beautifully snowy and clean. 

__

There was a V-shape slit in front of his chest with crisscrossed strings for him to tie, but unfortunately (and yet very fortunately) he hadn't and was exposing a good portion of his collarbones. Somewhere in Marco's lost thoughts, the word 'pure' was getting erased. 

__

"W-What? 'S look that bad?" Jean asked when nobody said anything. 

__

"Good. It good. It _looks_ good." 

__

The worker clapped her hands together, "You look amazing!" 

__

"It's... alright, I guess. It's not itchy and hard like other costumes. Oh, but lady, what's this stuff for?" Jean turned his back to them to find the object, revealing a transparent and graceful tail. There were soft colors of blue spikes on the sides and Marco wondered if the whole thing was glued to the leggings or if it was wrapped around his waist like a belt. 

__

But before he got _too_ curious though, the woman took advantage of Jean's back to fix her attention on Marco, mouthing _"It good?"_ when their eyes met. He couldn't say anything, only gaping like a fish and mortified that she'd called him out on his lack of proper grammar skills when faced with a good looking person. 

__

When Jean turned to them again, he was holding onto the hanger where a small plastic bad hung from. Inside were thin diamond shaped objects, some long and some short. They were silver like the material on his torso, but they had turquoise and white specs reflecting from within. 

__

"Oh that," She strolled towards him with excitement, "These are face stickers." 

__

"Face stickers?" 

__

"They used to be more popular in the late nineties and early twenties, but some people still wear them." 

__

"So I just stick them on my face like Christmas decorations?" 

__

"I find that they look more like scales if you place them around your eyes and lead them back to your hairline. Like so," She showed him what she meant with feathery strokes to her face, "But you have so much hair, people might not be able to see them!" 

__

"Good thing there's such thing as scissors, right lady?" Jean lightly teased her, but he'd been looking at Marco while he spoke. 

__

His eyes were playful and glittering against all that whiteness he was wearing, making him look angelic more than anything. Marco didn't know if he should respond to a rhetorical question that wasn't meant for him or if he should get his butt off the ottoman and say _something_ since he was keeping quiet. But instead he opted for giving Jean a smile, hoping he'd understand how grateful he was for not putting up more of a fight against the costume choice. 

__

"We've also got face paint if you really want to make yourself stand out. It's the same kind you find at Party City, so it'll smear if you're not careful," The worker - now at ease that Jean wasn't cursing - was comfortable enough to blabber up a storm, "I think you'd look even more of an ice dragon if you put glitter on your face. Doesn't snow sometimes shine that way when it's dark out and there's only a bit of light from the street poles around? I've seen it countless times and I think you could pull it o--" 

__

She was cut off by the door's bell ringing in the front of the store to announce someone had entered, followed by a man asking if anyone was home. She excused herself and left the two boys quietly staring at one another. 

__

Jean remained frozen like a statue, arms limp and bored against his body, but his facial features were saying something different, something Marco couldn't pinpoint. Whatever was concocting in his mind, he looked determined and almost _scary_ , making the hairs on Marco's freckled arms rise with this new expression of his. 

__

Because of that, he lost to their starring contest, now finding an interest at the glossy floorboards and how much it might've cost to fill the whole place up while Jean decided to now glower at him. This would be the first time he's ever felt this speechless and fidgety around someone, and the realization didn't sit well in his stomach. If Jean's attractiveness was able to shut him up this badly, he wondered what that meant for their friendship. 

__

It had taken Jean so much courage to even admit they were in that type of relationship in the first place, he couldn't begin to imagine how frightened the boy would be if he sprung his insignificant feelings onto him. And they were insignificant because do crushes really mean anything? They're fun to have when all you've got is work and school, but it's when you break that emotional dam when things begin to get complicated. 

__

_I'm getting ahead of myself. Things won't get complicated._

__

When it was evident Marco wouldn't be the first to put an end to their silence, mischief began to brew from the other. Without warning, Jean swung the hanger in his hand like wand, making circles with it in Marco's direction while somehow being able to keep a straight face. The jingle of the sticker jewelry and his weird behavior wasted no time in catching Marco's attention. 

__

"What are you doing?" 

__

"Shh! I'm casting a spell on you." 

__

"A spell?" 

__

"Ya." 

__

"Isn't that a witch thing?" 

__

"This dragon can do it, too. Watch," Jean walked to him with the stance and posture of a fence player, still remaining serious and still swinging his hand around. Marco couldn't help but snicker as he became mere inches away from the hanger, "Goddess of ice, God of snow, please grant my wishes fast. Goddess of ice, God of snow, get Marco off his ass!" 

__

Jean bopped him on the nose with the plastic, giving it a sound effect with a pop of his lips and smirking with pride at his little rhyme. To satisfy him, and to admittingly keep that nice attitude of his, Marco shot up from the seat with fake astonishment, forgetting his worries for the moment. 

__

"My god," He gasped, looking down at his legs, "it worked!" 

__

"It worked!" 

__

"I'm cured!" 

__

"He's cured!" Jean triumphantly echoed, holding his hands out to a crowd that wasn't there. 

__

Marco crossed an arm over his stomach and bowed, "I owe you my life now, good Ice Dragon. If you are ever in need of another hanger, I will be there, ready with a thousand more." 

__

"Marvelous! Brilliant! Outstanding! But wait! Instead of a new hanger, I know of a better way for you to repay your gratitude young peasant!" 

__

_I'm poor in our imagination, too?_

__

He peeked up at Jean, tilting his head a bit to quirk a brow at him, "Yes?" 

__

"I get to pick your costume," He dropped his act, now less sure of himself as Marco stood upright, "It's still part of the whole fantasy theme, so it's not like I'm _really_ choosing." 

__

"What'd you have in mind?" 

__

Jean handed him the wand/hanger, "Actually, I saw a few that'd look ni--that'd match with you while you were looking for mine. Wait here." 

__

"How much is a... few?" Marco trailed off at the end, Jean was already skipping off to the rack they'd come from, tail bouncing with each of his steps. 

__

He didn't have to ask, not when it was this evident, if Halloween was his favorite holiday. Jean hated being alone, apparently hated being in dimly lit stores, hated scary movies and hated being in his own downstairs because of how vacant it felt - and yet he really loved Halloween. That endearingly childish part of him was something Marco _could_ allow himself to be fond of. 

__

While Jean rampaged around the racks, he walked to the tiny fitting room. He hung the hanger back on the wall, accidentally stepping on something lumpy. When he looked at his feet he saw Jean's clothes bunched up on the floor and shoes thrown at the corner with his socks stuffed inside. He gently picked up the garments, patting off any dust or dirt it could've caught and hung them up as well. 

__

_This isn't his usual hoodie_

__

Marco's touch lingered around the sleeve of his sweater, feeling the thin gray cotton in between his dry fingers and noticing how it still felt warm. He chuckled to himself as he remembered those romcom movies where people get caught sniffing their person of interest belongings. Surly that type of thing didn't happen in real life... or did it? He wasn't yearning to find out. 

__

_I wonder why people do that in the first place. Don't they feel weird doing it? Like if I did it right now, and if Jean caught me, he'd probably never speak to me again. It's weird... right? He smelled really good earlier, but I'm not going to sniff his stuff. So weird. Not even if it_ is _this close to my face._

__

"Ok, I've got four. Originally I saw five that I liked, but when I saw it again, it was _meh_ so I put it back... what'cha doing there?" Jean asked from behind. Marco rapidly dropped his hand and faced him to spit out an excuse, but Jean started talking again before he could, "Oh, thanks. Probably shouldn't have left them on the floor. So, which one do you like best?" 

__

"Uh--" 

__

"I've got Forest Fairy, Royalty Elf, some sort of wizard and I like this one best," He moved the wizard costume to his other hand to reveal the the one underneath, "It's a sun dragon." 

__

"You want me to be a dragon, too?" Marco felt his heart squeeze, taking the outfit from his hand and keeping the blood from reaching his cheeks. 

__

"Yeah, but it's not because I'm still bent on matching or anything. It's just, if you're going to make me be something bright as hell, you have to stand out just as much as I do." 

__

"In that case, I'll start with this one." 

__

Jean took a step back, looking up at the curtain, "Careful with the walls, I almost smacked myself when I was taking off my pants. And be quick, I'm getting hungry." 

__

"Yes, sir, Jean sir." 

__

Marco closed the curtain on his face before he had the chance to scowl at him for the name. He carefully placed the hanger on top of Jean's clothes, taking deep breaths to cool his head and thanking god he didn't get called a clothes pervert. 

__

He skillfully kicked off his boots and removed each article of clothing as swiftly as possible. With Jean's warning in mind, he positioned himself so his back was touching the velvety cloth as he took off his pants, thinking he heard a girlish giggle from outside. He ignored it and continued to change, and after standing in just boxers, he began to wonder if he'd made up the warmth inside the store. 

__

The first thing he noticed about Jean's choice of costume was how the shirt was actually some sort of vest and how it was sleeveless. The second was how undeserving it made him feel. It was just as beautiful as Jean's - only extremely yellow, but this yellow was pale and kind to the eyes. And much like the ice dragon, his also had glitter that instead showed oranges, reds and white when it moved. 

__

It was also adorned with a high collar to it designed with flaring swirls like a flower in bloom, reminding him of the sun's rays in a way. As he tried it on he felt how light it felt around his neck. The shirt underneath the vest was snug against his skin, pastel orange and free of shine. And to his liking, he found the pants weren't leggings. 

__

They were tight around his ankles, but the rest was baggy and easy to slip on, the tail sowed onto the back was so light he couldn't even feel it as he moved his hips to swing it around. He didn't appear like much of a dragon with just that, but he hoped the scale stickers attached to his hanger would make it more obvious. 

__

"Does it look alright?" Marco asked, running his hands down his chest to smooth down the vest while stepping out. 

__

Jean had taken his seat on the ottoman, cross-legged as he stopped messing with his own outfit. His mouth tightened as his eyes instantly glued to Marco's arms like back at the gym. This would _also_ be the first time he's experienced shyness because of his tattoo. It felt more like they were breasts with the way Jean looked at them, or in his case, chocolate milk? 

__

"It looks... " The other trailed off, either because he didn't know what to say or because he was too distracted. 

__

_My eyes are up here, Jean._

__

"Good? Bad? Horribly bad?" 

__

"It looks," His head snapped up, "like something." 

__

"That bad, huh?" 

__

Jean jumped up, still holding on to the the other three costumes, "No! No, well, you don't look as good as _me_ , but you look good. Do you like it? Wanna try the other ones?" 

__

"Actually, I think I'll stick with this one. We match but at the same time we're opposites so it's kinda cool. I especially like the pants. They feel like pajamas," Marco wiggled his legs to show him just how loose they were. 

__

"You better not dance like that at the club." 

__

"But it's fun." 

__

"But it'll scare people off." 

__

"But that's why you're there. Come on, try it with me." 

__

"No way, I'm supposed to be cool remember?" Jean scoffed, eyes going back to Marco's arms and then to the wall behind them, "Is that how you used to dance in your *NSYNC days?" 

__

"Oh no, no no. I promise you it was way better than... hold up. I don't remember ever telling you who I listened to back then?" 

__

Jean's face turned from guilty, to shameful to irritated with pinkness accompanying every emotion, "You must have a shit memory, then. Here, put these back on the rack, I'm changing." 

__

Marco moved out of his way, grabbing onto the costumes as Jean stomped inside of the fitting room. It was true that sometimes his memory worked against him, but this was something he would definitely recall mentioning. *NSYNC had been his obsession for most of his elementary and middle school life. He wasn't into them anymore, but he'd still feel sheepish when his friends would remind him of those dark, dark years. 

__

Which was why he knew he'd never willingly reveal that information to Jean. 

__

_Did someone tell him about it? I don't see why they would, unless... unless... no way. Did he use to listen to them, too?... Nah, he would never... or would he?_

__

"Were you ever into that kind of music when you were younger?" Marco asked, taking a seat on the golden chair. 

__

"Huh?" 

__

"I said if you liked *NSYNC when you were younger?" 

__

"What?" 

__

"Jean, are you doing that on purpose?" 

__

"Eh? I suddenly can't hear over all this curtain." 

__

Marco huffed as he started inspecting the costumes he'd rejected, "What if I turn this into our game? Would you be able to hear me then?" 

__

"...Oh. Hm. Maybe." 

__

"Would you be alright if I started? I don't remember who was last." 

__

"No way, it's my turn." 

__

"Is it really?" 

__

There was a moment of silence from the other side before Jean responded with genuine surprise, "Actually, yeah, now that I think about it, we stopped playing after you asked about the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to me." 

__

"Crap, ok, go ahead." Marco feigned disappointment, already moving onto the second costume on his lap. 

__

"Ooo, he said crap. Marco's saying bad words now," Jean cackled by himself, and for some absurd reason Marco felt adoration in his chest from his silliness. 

__

"I say bad words all the time." 

__

"You big fat liar, you do not. When will I ever hear you say fuck, shit or even dammit?" 

__

"I don't say it in English. Or more like I can't. It sounds too impolite," Marco admitted, hearing Jean zipping up his pants. 

__

"They're curse words, what else are they supposed to sound like? You know what, we'll deal with that issue later. But right now I've got my sixteenth... sixteenth, right? Whatever, my sixteenth questions is... is..." 

__

Marco looked in his direction, seeing only his peach colored elbow from the crack of the curtain, "Is what?" 

__

"Howm long mwas your lonmgest relationshim?" 

__

His voice sounded strained. And like if it was muffled by his shirt or sweater, but Marco had managed to understand what he asked, "Like with a boyfriend?" 

__

"No, with your right hand. Of course with a boyfriend." 

__

"I'm not very good at the whole dating thing, so my longest was a couple of months? Maybe three." 

__

"That's it?" 

__

"That's it." 

__

"Really? Are you sure?" 

__

"Mmhmm, pretty sure." 

__

"But..." 

__

"Yeah, I know it's pretty sad," Marco examined the last costume - realizing all of them had been sleeveless - and decided not to get too happy about it. At that moment his lips slipped out a question before asking his brain for permission, "Are you dating anyone right now?" 

__

"What?" 

__

"That's-That's my fifteenth question." 

__

There was a smile in his words when Jean spoke this time, "Don't call me dense when you ask things like that." 

__

"Sorry." 

__

He soundlessly came out of the fitting room, clutching his costume with his thumbs rubbing across the plastic they were safely sealed in. There was a bubbly air around him as he halted his steps, hair frizzy from all the changing and eyes uncommonly coy, "If I was with someone right now, they'd probably be jealous of how much time we spent together, don'tcha think?" 

__

"Yeah. Yeah, that's true," Marco swallowed, unable to look away from the grasp of Jean's hold, "He'd probably be want you to stop." 

__

"Not that I would. I'm my own man, I make my own rules." 

__

"Uh-huh." 

__

"That's why it's best to just have friends, right? I like having friends... Friends like you," When the words were done flying out of his mouth, Jean's face flooded with every shade of pink imaginable.

__

_Why is he blushing?! Where did that even come from?!_

__

"I like being friends with you too, Jean," Marco said it as chummy as possible, but it was too late. The situation was already stained with embarrassment from the honesty in Jean's feelings. 

__

The boys aimed their sights in different directions, torturing themselves in the beginning of a mutual awkward silence. Most of the time Marco could understand the meaning behind jean's bluntness and impulsive actions, but that right there was a dropped bomb into his heart that was too hard to decode... an adorable bomb that he didn't very much mind getting blown by. 

__

"It's pretty hot in here," Marco said, deciding he didn't want to create tension between them while he fanned himself, "I wonder how their bill looks at the end of every month." 

__

"... You're wearing like ten layers of clothing. It's probably only seventy degrees." 

__

"I don't want to get sick again." 

__

"You can't get sick from cold weather, it's just a myth," Jean wouldn't look at him, "I saw a video about it on YouTube." 

__

"Well, it doesn't hurt to be prepared. You never know when some goof will forget what season we're in," Marco got up, leaving the outfits chosen for him on the ottoman. Whatever heavenly reason had caused Jean to get sentimental, he didn't want to act like it'd bothered him - mostly because he'd be happy to get more surprises like that, "Here, use my coat for the rest of the night." 

__

"Nah, it's alright. I like being room temperature." 

__

"Don't be stubborn, it's not room temperature outside." 

__

Jean was frowning at the price sticker on the costume, using his nails to scratch at it. His ears and cheeks were still heavily dusted in rose. Marco wanted to feel the warmth coming off of them - maybe even tease him a little about how he'd just managed to humiliate them both for no reason - but he couldn't do that. 

__

All he could do was slip off his coat and hand it to his reluctant friend, letting him know he'd be paying for their things since dinner was on him. He left Jean standing there while he went back into the fitting room to change. The sound of his shoes on the floor moved away until all that was audibly left was the distant voice of the worker. 

__

And like putrid bile burning his throat, Marco forced himself to drink down his selfish attraction. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is sorta how I picture Marco's tattoo!!](http://tattoomagz.com/wp-content/uploads/Tattoos/wings-tattoos/Adorable-mens-wings-tattoo-on-arm.jpg)
> 
>  
> 
> I really tried keeping this under tEN FUCKING THOUSAND WORDS SO I HOPE IT DOESN'T SOUND TOO RUSHED


	17. Translucent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can Jean be any more obvious? Can blushing too much kill a person? Will Jean ever snap out of his favorite day dreaming?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look who's a day early! Also, sorry I went over 10k again. It's really hard for me to stay under. I. Don't. Know. Why.

"In our next unit we'll be talking about memories," Mr. Ackerman announced, taking slow strides across the whiteboard. Their lesson of the day was finished, but their teacher wasn't.

 

He looked scary as usual, but being almost halfway into the semester had changed Jean's perspective on the short man. In a way, he could see how Eren found him to be a good mentor. After all, he was educated in knowing why humans feel the way they feel and think the way they think. It was cool, like a superpower. With an ability like that you could help people without ever even touching them.

 

"Does anyone know what memories are?"

 

As usual, no one raised their hands. Saying this was an old routine didn't do it justice. Jean felt the whole class tense up, waiting for his next warning before calling out on a frightened student.

 

"Anyone?"

 

"Cricket, cricket," Jean whispered to himself, drawing flowers on his blank notebook.

 

"Kirschtein."

 

"Yes!"

 

"Thanks for volunteering. Tell the class what memories are."

 

_Who the fuck doesn't know what those are?_

 

Jean put his pen down, wishing he could do the same with his head, "They're stuff we remember from the past?"

 

"Sure. Some examples of this could be conversations, pictures and in some cases, even smells that people can recall," Mr. Ackerman took a seat on top of an empty desk in the front of the room, "Does anyone know why we only keep certain memories while we forget the rest?"

 

There was a cough on the left side of the room and a throat clearing behind Jean. Fifth period was hard enough just having a mean-looking teacher, all of these scared shitless students double - if not tripled - the strain in the air. Not that Jean was one to talk, he related with his classmates.

 

"Luckily for all of you who don't know, we'll be learning about that next week. Today I just want to give you a brief introduction before the bell rings."

 

He hopped off the desk, now making his way to turn off the lights, "What comes to mind when I say _flashbulb memories_?"

 

_Cricket, cricket_

 

"Daz."

 

"Heh?!"

 

"What do you think flashbulb memories are?"

 

"Wh-When you - when people remember something or a sound or something out of n-nowhere?"

 

"Good guess, but no. That's more of a recovered memory."

 

Even with the lights switching off, Jean still picked up his pen to start drawing again. The projector above them caste enough light around for him to see the dark blue swirls he was now decorating on his paper.

 

"Flashbulb memories are vivid memories we have of a dramatic event. A theory about this is that a strong emotional bond is connected to said event."

 

_A strong emotional bond... crap this flower looks like a hand._

 

"For example, I bet you all remember embarrassing things that's happened to you years and years ago. Maybe you ripped your pants in front of a crowd, maybe you peed on yourself before reaching the restroom..."

 

_Maybe I was butt naked outside in the middle of the day with an old man spraying his deluxe five-thousand powered hose at me with a crying woman holding me in place._

 

"But it doesn't have to be traumatic to be memorable. You're still only children in my eyes, but even I know of a certain powerful emotion that you've all experienced in some form. Does anyone know what I'm talking about?"

 

Mr. Ackerman's fingers could be heard typing away at his laptop, making the lights from the projector change. Jean looked up to find the boring and basic power-point font and color the short man loved to use staring him in the face. It had the definition of what he was talking about. Very basic.

 

"I'll give you a hint," The teacher continued, "It's love. A loving memory with family, a friend or even a significant other can stay with us forever just as much as a gruesome one. I want you to remember what's on the board so you can respond to my questions of Monday."

 

The students watched as their stoic professor stood from his desk, crossing his arms together like always to announce he was about to give them an assignment. Usually they were fairly hard, making them read about impossible situations along with making them give their opinions on morality, but today he looked different - as if speaking about emotions rather than logic softened the man up.

 

"Class ends in five minutes. I want you to write me two paragraphs. One: give me a negative memory - the earliest you can muster and two: a positive one - one that you go to when you're feeling down. And as always, you don't have to write your name on your paper if you don't want to."

 

With that said, he walked to the front door where the lights were located and switched them back on. The kids blinked at the change of darkness, squinting and rubbing their eyes as they started scribbling down about their past.

 

Jean bit at his pen, thinking of nothing while looking at nothing. Sure there was lots he could write down for depressing experiences, one _very_ specific memory jumped at him but he didn't want to acknowledge it, because like Marco said _they were just kids_ when it happened. And writing about it felt like he was doing Marco wrong.

 

He'd done buried those memories like a scorned wife burying her cheating husband. Jean was no wife, but his emotions had cheated him away from being with Marco all these years. So now finding an unpleasant memory worthy of writing down turned out to be quite hard.

 

_Everything is optional if you really think about it._

 

Ignoring his teacher's wants, and thinking only of the good things that have been happening to him, his words began to be written down so quickly that his handwriting looked like shit even to him. But there was no stopping the flow once he got started. The sensation in his chest poured onto doodled paper, staining it with words he'd never dare say out loud.

 

_No way in hell I'm writing my name on this shit. No fucking way._

 

Jean turned over his sheet, facing feeling warm and heart turning mushy from emotions he couldn't bare himself to even think about so early in the afternoon. But he thought of them nonetheless.

 

Memories to him were like the unknown and supernatural. Some are friendly like Casper but others are demons that keep you up at night and eat at your stomach for years and years. He used to have those demonic and unwanted memories plague him, it wasn't too long ago that he dreaded being in the same room as the kid who started it all for him.

 

And now those pesky monsters had shrunk to finger sized boogers sticking to his feet, trying to hold him down to wallow in self-hate. Of course he still had these unwanted surges of guilt pass through him whenever he and Marco were having too much fun, it wasn't that easy for him to let it all go. But he was getting better. Marco made him feel better.

 

Jean could feel his belly flip. Just thinking of him gave him the urge to slap himself in order to not foolishly grin. During the night of his big revelation, admitting to himself that yes, he did in fact still have a _huge_ crush on Marco after all these years, he had stayed up way past midnight to figure out what to do.

 

If he should do anything at all. He'd been confused about his situation until Tuesday afternoon. As great as Marco made him feel, he also made Jean weak. Weak to those puppy eyes, weak to those strapping muscles, weak to the kindness that leaked from every one of his words and so damn weak to those wings tattooed forever on his skin.

 

_This is going to be fucking hard. Good thing no one suspects me._

 

Jean jumped to the sound of the bell ringing. His classmates packed up their belongings and zipped out the door - pausing to hand in their paper to their teacher - and then disappearing altogether. He could almost hear their breath of relief the second their feet stepped out into the hall.

 

With a slower pace, he did the same and handed his paper in still faced down. Mr. Ackerman turned it over for him, but didn't look down at what he wrote, only giving him a cryptic look as the slower students behind him waited to hand theirs in.

 

Taking the hint, Jean darted out and was quickly stuck in the traffic of unhealthy bodies of teenagers. It had been easier to navigate through it during the first week of school, where everyone was afraid of being late to their next class. But now they were all chummy with each other and blocked his path even more. He was grateful someone equally scary as his psych teacher still waited for him at the corner of the hall.

 

Mikasa had stopped telling him he was late after a month, resorting to killing him with her eyes as he approached each and every day. They said nothing as they walked around the corner and were granted the nice gesture of people moving out of their way.

 

The wrestling queen still made them cower, but lately they've been quicker to give them space. Jean figured it was because the wrestling match was drawing closer and they didn't want to end up becoming one of her punching bags. It was funny how they thought of her.

 

She was indeed scary as fuck and not someone you'd want to mess with, but deep down she was a dork. A real big one. Her sense of humor is awkward, but funny and she cares a whole lot for all of her friends. Jean liked that the students didn't know that though. Otherwise they'd be stuck in the halls for an hour trying to get to the lunchroom.

 

Jean turned to look at her to see if she was even aware of how the crowd parted for them (her), but his eye caught a blot of dark discoloration on her neck.

 

"Yo, is that a bruise? Did someone actually manage to leave you a bruise?"

 

"What?”

 

“Your neck,” He touched his own neck to show her where it was on hers, “it's purple-y.”

 

“It's nothing."

 

"Was it Eren? I knew that prick would snap one day and try to go against you. I just never expected it to be so soon. We've always told you you were too hard on him," Jean shook his head and pretended to look disappointed, "Do you need help kicking his ass?"

 

She said nothing, but her hand instinctively touched the mark. Without looking at him, she readjusted her signature scarf to hide it and said, "I accidentally hit myself with a shelf door when I was putting away dishes. Eren wouldn't be walking around if he'd laid a finger on me."

 

"Ha. That's true."

 

In all his dense glory, Jean failed to see the blush on her pale cheeks as they hopped down the steps that lead to the cafeteria. If he thought the noise from the halls were loud, this surpassed it by a million.

 

There was no such thing as voices in the lunch room. Here everything blurred into one giant ball of bad smells and vibrations of different tones. He hated it, but he loved food and being with the others... sometimes. As the two neared their table, he thought that today might be one of the more less tolerable days.

 

Reiner was in a frenzy, elbows propped on the table and head shoved impossibly close to Connie's. Even at this distance he could see the shape of his mouth repeating something over and over again... and he could also see the shape of his boobs creating slight cleavage. Gross.

 

Annie was just watching as usual, but there was mild disgust tugging at her upper lip as Connie blushed tomato red at all the attention being given to him for who knows how long now.

 

Jean could hear Reiner asking, "When? When? When? When? When?" as they arrived, but as soon as he and Mikasa took their seats, the table went quiet.

 

"What the hell's going on?" Jean barked.

 

Connie slid the two their lunch of the day. They could all see the gears in his head thinking of what to say and Jean couldn't help but think of how cartoonish he looked being... shy? Was it shyness? Jean didn't know.

 

Mikasa sensing the bald boy's hesitation spoke up, "So. Did it finally happen?"

 

"Did what fucking happen?"

 

"I'm talking to Connie, Jean."

 

He grumbled, taking his brown paper bag and spilling what was inside out onto the table. He double checked to make sure he was looking at his lunch right. The sandwich wrapped in plastic wrap was shaped like a heart; the mango chunks in his Ziploc bag were also shaped like a heart; and he couldn't see the cookies safely tucked in paper towel, but if he had to guess...

 

He looked up to see Connie nodding his head at Mikasa's question.

 

"Why is everyone being so hush hush? What the fuck is going on?"

 

Annie stared at him from the end of the table, "Are you seriously that blind?"

 

_Too scary to answer._

 

"S-Spit it out already, Con." Jean demanded, hating how even Reiner wasn't willing to spill the beans, and taking a big bite from one of his hearts.

 

Connie scratched the back of his hand, looking down with a happy look on his face, "Me and Sash are kinda, like, dating now."

 

"And it's about damn time, too!" Reiner boomed, harshly patting his shoulder across the table to congratulate him. Mikasa – and even Annie managed to laugh a little at that. But Jean's thoughts went to Sasha.

 

_Does she know they're dating? Did this happen at their drama party? Or was it way after? Why the hell didn't she tell me anything?!... but does she know that they're dating or is she as lost as I am?_

 

"Wait, are you for real?"

 

"C'mon, Jean, don't tell me you didn't see this coming? Even Bertholdt said he thought this would happen."

 

"I'm being for real. Super for real. Ferreal, ferreal," Connie said, serious faced and concentrated on not cracking a delighted smile.

 

"So... so you liked her? All this time you liked her?"

 

“Wow, he really _didn't_ know.” Annie huffed.

 

"Well, I mean... I knew Sasha liked him, but he didn't look like he liked her."

 

Mikasa pointed a finger at Connie, "He was actually the easiest to tell. Always staring at Sasha, it didn't look like you were even trying to hide it."

 

"Yeah and also you touched her all the time for no reason. I know it's normal for close friends to do that, but you just made it too damn obvious," Reiner added.

 

Annie shook her head, "I thought you two had already been dating for a while. I'm surprised she held off for this long."

 

"You guys are too nosy," Jean took another bite of his sandwich, bitter that he was the last to figure things out and unable to rub it in their faces, "Leave the poor guy alone. It's our job as friends to pretend we're surprised."

 

"Alright. I'll pretend to be surprised for the next couple," Mikasa said, staring directly at him. Jean felt it was more of a threat, and like with Annie, he ignored her confusing comment to interview potato head... or boiled potato head since he was still blushing.

 

"Does she know you're going out?"

 

"Duh! I wouldn't say... I wouldn't have said anything if she hadn't ... said anything."

 

"And how long have you been together? Did this go down during the drama party or what?"

 

“Yeah, when'd it happen?” Reiner asked, Jean guessed for the eleventeenth time.

 

Connie rubbed his chin, "No, it didn't happen during the party. It was days after. We talked a bit there though, but then she got embarrassed about puking on me so we were back to avoiding each other for a while."

 

"Hey!"

 

"What?!"

 

"You didn't fully answer the question!"

 

"Why are you yelling at me? And what part?!"

 

"How long have you been together?!"

 

"Three days! It's been a three days, geez!"

 

"You know," Reiner butted in, swallowing food, "if you guys ever get a divorce, I'm just letting you know now that I'll be on Sasha's side. She's got her cooking skills to offer and, well, you ain't got squat little man."

 

The whole table jokingly agreed, telling him they'd visit his home every once in a while if they remember his name, but not to hold his breath on it. Behind his fake frown, Jean could see how strongly Connie was beaming, possibly relieved to not be holding in the burden of keeping his feelings hidden anymore. Jean was relieved that what he felt wasn't nearly as serious as what those two had for each other. Otherwise he'd probably be jealous.

 

"Don't go jinxing a couple breaking up right when they just started going out, assholes," Connie muttered, making them laugh at his furious flush.

 

_I wonder how Sasha is doing. I'll try and ask her my other questions later..._

 

Their conversation slowly drifted from youthful love to reckless plans for Saturday. If Jean was being completely honest, he'd say he was pretty damn excited about the destination of Armin's birthday. He'd been to a few house parties here and there, but only once to an actual nightclub. And it'd been a horrible experience because he'd taken Connie and Sasha as guinea pigs to tag along with him.

 

The two nuts had danced with each other most of the night, leaving Jean awkwardly alone in a table with other rejects waiting to be asked to participate in the border-line sex dances. Eventually, though, he'd gotten desperate enough to lose a bit of pride to dance with Connie and Sasha. It hadn't been all that bad, but he was disappointed that his first experience had been boring in such an infamous place. He really hoped this time it'd be different.

 

"Since there's twelve of us going, that means there can't just be one designated driver," Mikasa was saying to the group, opening up her apple juice, "We have to have at least two."

 

Jean nodded, chewing on his mango bites as the others pitched in their thoughts.

 

"I think - even though the shorty doesn't drink - Armin should be out of the question. He'll probably want to smoke a little bit of _hoo-ha_ on his big day, if ya know what I'm sayin'," Reiner made a smoking gesture with his fingers, "It wouldn't be fair to make him babysit."

 

"What about you, Mika? You and Eren gonna go mommy mode and watch over him?" Connie asked.

 

"He's turning eighteen. We're getting trashed _with_ him."

 

"Let's be realistic about this. Armin, Mikasa and Eren are out. We all know Bertholdt, Ymir, Sasha, you and you are out," Annie pointed at Connie and Reiner, "even if you two promised to stay clean there's no guarantee you'll go stick to it. So that leaves Jean, Marco and Christa."

 

"You skipped yourself," Reiner pointed out.

 

She tucked her hair behind her ear, putting her trash inside the brown paper bag, "Yeah. On purpose. And that's because I'm not going to be babysitting either."

 

"Are you guys saying you trust _me_ to stay sober? Marco and Christa are better candidates, don't put me in with the pure unless you wanna get disappointed."

 

"You disappoint us no matter what you do."

 

"I'll remember that Connie!"

 

Mikasa patted his shoulder as a warning sign to not scream so close to her ear again, "You never know how the night will end. Until then don't get so mad about it."

 

"I'm not _mad_. It's just - the last time I had to watch over a drunk person, they ended up cutting their hand on glass and crying about not being able to pick up trash. I'm not... good at watching over people. So just leave it to the other two."

 

"Sash said you did a good job at taking care of Marco, though.”

 

“She did? Well, it d-doesn't matter. I'm not equipped enough to watch over five people at one time. You know what? Why don't we just let six baby sit and six get trashed? We can play rock-paper-scissors to decide.”

 

“Uh, no,” Reiner waved a thick hand to show his distaste, “We'll just ask Marco and Christa what they want to do. If they want to drink or whatever, then we'll use your method.”

 

“But--”

 

“We could always just fight and see who's left standing.”

 

“That literally solves nothing, Annie,” Mikasa pointed out.

 

“I don't see you coming up with anything.”

 

“How about you go to sleep? There's my idea.”

 

“Well with a face like yours around I won't be able to do that. Might give me nightmares.”

 

Connie turned to glare at Jean, giving him a _“You see what you just did?”_ face, but thankfully Reiner saved them all... maybe even the whole world.

 

“Ah, speaking of sleeping and what not, are Sasha's parents going to be home for the weekend?”

 

They were all relieved when the subject blended to a new one, going on about sleeping arrangements after they were done with the club even though they didn't resolve anything. Reiner said that Ymir's place was actually available again if they were tired of seeing Sasha's floors or if it'd become unavailable, but they never came up with a decision. One comment would lead to another that would end up being a story that would _then_ remind someone else of a story.

 

Somewhere along Connie's roach tale, Jean started thinking about his own arrangements. His house could also be a resting option, but it'd be limited to just one person, seeing as how his place was so cluttered with his mothers things and she'd actually be home. And the one person Jean was thinking about was the kind he'd trust to blindly shoot an arrow at the apple on his head. It could only be the crybaby who cut himself on a broken cookie jar and embraced him after sticking band-aids on his hands.

 

Jean realized he really didn't want Marco to drink, and he was glad the others probably felt the same way. Marco was a tall guy, heavy too, so if for some reason he did decide to consume alcohol, he was afraid Christa alone wouldn't be enough to hold him up.

 

He made a mental note right then, a promise to himself to control his own intake just in case something went wrong. He would've announced it out loud too, but he'd made a big deal about not being a babysitter and was too embarrassed to take back his words.

 

_Eh, I'm probably overthinking things. He'll be fine, even Marco said he won't be drinking again._

 

When he finished his own lunch, he jumped back into conversation with the rest. Like bees in a field of a thousand different flowers, they flew from one topic to the next with excitement and hurry, unable to concentrate on one for too long.

 

It was always like this on the last couple of days before the weekend, but today was Wednesday and not as near as Friday as they wished. Still, the students very much seemed to liven up their dull school with their impatiently loud voices saying they were ready to go and their inflated laughter trying to reach outside before their bodies could. And with this upcoming and new experience awaiting for Jean and his friends on Saturday, it made their buzz beat the rest.

 

They talked until the bell rang for them to go to their last class, giving Connie one last tease about finally getting with Sasha as they parted ways. Again Jean trudged along with Mikasa, silent and hoping he'd create one of those _flashbulb_ memories Mr. Ackerman had talked about last period.

 

If emotions were the source of being able to recall those memories long into the future, Jean wondered just how strong exactly those emotions had to be. Like now, he knows he can relive the anxiety and fear of going to his anatomy class. It only took one thought to feel the churn in his stomach. But now... now it churned for a different reason, a much _much_ more different reason.

 

Jean liked that his strong feelings of dread were replaced by the new comforting memories Marco had created with him. They were the kind that wrapped around his fear like a blanket during a thunder storm filled with lightning, and he knew they would be the kind or memories his mind would go to when his life would go spiraling out of control. Whenever that would be. It was good to be prepared apparently.

 

With a spring to his step and Marco in his mind, Jean didn't notice how ahead he'd passed Mikasa. Also unaware of the roll of her eyes..

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

"Jean! Mikasa! Glad you could make it!" Dr. Zoe welcomed them with their usual greeting.

 

"Glad to be here!" Jean shot back with a smile, but his teacher didn't catch his sarcasm and smiled back with two thumbs up.

 

Mikasa shoved him inside, obediently going to her seat and getting hounded with more hello's by her table partner. When Jean looked at his own desk, he noticed Vacuum Girl had taken his seat next to Eren... and how Marco was lonely at his own, looking worried and uncomfortable. Jean almost laughed when he guessed it was because she was 'breaking the rules' and sitting somewhere that wasn't her assigned seat.

 

_Look at this weenie._

 

He gingerly strode over and plopped down beside Marco, half listening to part of Sasha's ramblings about what he should have expected to be her love story before taking off his book-bag, "How long has her mouth been running?"

 

"Five minutes... and I actually got here earlier than Eren today."

 

"Ok, so, but what I _didn't_ say at lunch was that I knew Connie had been staring at me throughout the whole time we were at the party. Like, I could just feel his eyes on me and I think that's why I drank so much," She chortled, earning a whine from Eren.

 

"Can you believe they're an item now?" Jean lowly said, hoping she wouldn't notice him yet and drown him in her story. He could always ask her his questions in a more private setting.

 

"Actually, yeah. I knew Connie liked her and Sasha was a little obvious sometimes."

 

"Fuck. Am I really the only one who didn't see this coming?"

 

Marco fiddled with the mechanical pencil in his hands, his arms were covered in a thick layer of sweater, "I mean-I guess sometimes it's hard to tell when friends are just being friends or if there's more to it. It's... it's a very weird line."

 

"And after that, like straight out of a Disney movie, he came after me up the stairs. I knew he was following me so I went into one of the empty rooms. It smelled like cigarettes, but I was lucky enough to find _any_ privacy at all," She was being loud as always, but Jean didn't think it was on purpose this time. She looked so lost in her memories that it'd caught all three of their attentions.

 

"And then what happened?" Eren asked, not totally serious because it seemed he's already heard the story, but still interested to hear it again.

 

"And then... we fought. It was our first real fight. He blew up, like some sort of volcano. He told me everything: how he felt, what he thought of our situation, what he thought of the future... And it then it hit me!"

 

"What hit you?" It was Jean's turn to ask.

 

She turned to him and smiled, "It hit me that I really don't talk a lot."

 

" _What_?"

 

"No, really! Do you guys know what I want to be more than anything? No, right? I talk without really saying anything and Concon really made me see that. And Jean!"

 

"What?"

 

Her smiled turned sad, "I'm sorry I didn't let you know sooner about... you know. It's just, I didn't even know what our relationship status was or what Connie wanted to do and if I'd said we were together--"

 

"Shut up," Jean grinned, "I know how your brain works already. You don't have to apologize."

 

"Jeany really gets me!"

 

"Yeesh," Eren gagged.

 

"It's ok I wuv you, too, wittle Weren! And I can't forget our tiny Marcookie!"

 

"Pfft! Marcookie? Hey should we change that to your stripper name?" Jean whispered that last part to Marco.

 

“Ah...”

 

“Don't talk to me like I'm a child.”

 

Sasha and Eren split off to talk about the rudeness of baby tones and babies, something Jean had grown a tender heart for the day Marco told him about Thomas. It's not like he had hated kids that strongly before, they were just annoying. And now that he personally (sorta) knew someone his age with a pair of rugrats, it made his perspective change a bit. They were still scary, though.

 

"...Marcookie doesn't sound very stripper-y. Does it?"

 

"There are some named Candy. I think Marcookie is just as good... Oh! Speaking of candy, do you know what day it is the day after next?"

 

"Mmm, Friday?"

 

"Not just _any_ Friday."

 

Marco laughed, still playing with his pencil, "Yeah, I know. The other day at my house we actually put up some ghost stickers on the windows. And this witch on our tree. Have you seen them? The one's who look like they crashed?"

 

"Yeah, I have. They've been around since forever."

 

"Did you guys put anything up?"

 

He knew Marco already knew the answer to his question as soon as he'd finished asking it. He could just see the regret in those big brown eyes. But it was fine. Jean's mom had always been too busy during the day when she wasn't sleeping to run other errands. She had no energy left to spunk up the house for Halloween and when Jean got home from school he just wanted to eat and sleep.

 

"I think my house looks ugly and creepy just the way it is. Chipped white paint and a bloody red door can probably scare off the neighborhood brats."

 

"It's not creepy, your house is cute."

 

"Cute my ass."

 

"A-ah, wait, I think I have an idea. What if..." Marco's eyes glossed over, thinking something over as he started chewing on his lip. Jean didn't mind waiting - or watching - him take his time coming up with whatever he was considering, "Are you busy tomorrow?"

 

Jean rested his head on the table but still looked up at him, "Nope. I'm one-hundred percent free."

 

"Would it be ok if I came over after I'm done at the gym? Me and Micah have leftover pumpkins and if you want, we could carve some for your house. I know it's not much, but it's fun?"

 

"Are you telling or asking me?" He teased, perky and mushy all over again. He could see Marco clenching and unclenching his jaw, not knowing if he should answer that question, "You don't have to ask anymore. Just come over whenever you want since I've got nothing better to do."

 

"Really? Alright then,” His jaw lost its tension and Jean felt sorry, “I hope you know you'll be saving three pumpkins from rotting.”

 

“Mm. You should give me a million dollars as a reward.”

 

“Oh sure, let me just reach into my wallet and pull it out.”

 

Jean lightly kicked him underneath the table, “That'd be perfect, thanks.”

 

When he was done gawking at Marco's bone structure from his position, Jean felt that bravery that never seemed to run out on him take over his mouth. He straightened up, stretching out his legs and arms as he said, "You should sleep over on Saturday after the club... y-you know because Ymir's place is in a bad neighborhood and there's no furniture or TV. Remember how hard her floors felt in the morning, too? And Sasha's place is no better. She'll make us do all her chores if we don't leave early and everyone will probably end up there and it'll be too loud for people with hangovers."

 

"Wow," Marco blinked, slightly hesitant in Jean's paranoid eyes.

 

“What?”

 

“I never really thought that far ahead. I didn't even know Ymir's place was an option. She didn't mention anything during lunch."

 

"Oh, well, I dunno. I didn't find out until today eiher."

 

"Will there be anyone else staying with us?"

 

"No? I've only got one extra bed. Unless they _want_ to sleep on the floor."

 

"Oh," Marco looked at Jean, as if to confirm with his own eyes that this offer was serious. Jean didn't get what the big deal was, it's not like this would be the first time they'd be alone in a room together. After a few more seconds of staring at one another, the other boy cracked, "Alright, I'll stay at your place. But..."

 

"But what?"

 

"Would it be ok if - oh, I dunno - if I take the top bun--"

 

"No."

 

"Ok."

 

Jean laughed at his quick response, not really sure if he wanted to reject that suggestion when Marco started giggling with him. This easiness they had going on, the kind that'd tickle his insides, he hoped it stayed like that for a long, long time. Gazing back at his tiny reflection in Marco's golden eyes, Jean could tell that he'd became different.

 

Or at least that's how he felt. He knew he was still a jerk sometimes – ok most of the times – and his his laziness hasn't exactly hasn't changed either, but something shifted. He didn't know when or where, but he was much softer inside. And maybe that softness was partially caused by those big ol' eyes sending sparks of adrenaline to make his heart pump a tad faster. Jean felt he could swim in their color of honey and shine all period.

 

Not even the bell ringing to start class made Jean look away. He knew very well that he should, but he didn't want to. And fueling his stubbornness, Marco didn't look away either. He had a half smile ghosting on his lips like the time he'd shown him the stars in the middle of nowhere with eyebrows slightly raised. They both just kind of stayed still in an air of unknown between them.

 

Until Sasha slammed her hands on the table, "Sorry to split you two beans in a cob, but we've gotta switch now."

 

Marco swung a hand over his heart at her unexpected intrusion as Jean stiffly got up to move. Feeling like a thirteen year old boy all over again, Jean's mouth twitched with a wobbly smile. He didn't want to show how content he was with Marco's reaction, knowing he'd been just as into it as he was. Whatever _it_ had been.

 

"I'll meet you at the parking lot," Jean whispered, now in his seat.

 

“What the hell? What for?” Eren asked.

 

“Not _you_ , dumb ass.”

 

Jean looked back to make sure Marco heard, their eyes met and Marco gave him a little nod before he went back to facing the front to listen to the beginnings of Dr. Zoe's heavily detailed new lesson. It'd been some time now that they would hang out around their cars after school ended.

 

'Hang out' wasn't really a fitting word, though. They'd only talk for a minute or two, saying nothing that really mattered, but Jean liked those two minutes. He also liked knowing Marco would be there waiting for him even on days they didn't plan on it.

 

_Okaaay feelings, lets take it back a notch._

 

In the droning voice of his teacher trying to educate them, Jean felt a little worry. Liking Marco – figuring out he liked Marco for this long – had made him feel like shit. But he'd told himself it shouldn't be like that, that he wasn't allowed to feel that way when he'd been such a... such a _nothing_ to the other boy in the past.

 

Marco hadn't seen him as a bully, only as a kid who threw tantrums. The only person who thought Jean couldn't like his friend was, well, Jean. And that spoke volumes to him.

 

_It's not bad, right? I'm not being unfair, right? This is allowed... right?_

 

In the soup of emotions he had brewing in his chest, there was one comforting thought that would put him at ease. And that was that Jean still liked Marco as a friend, too. He didn't mind their current relationship, in fact, he very much wanted it to stay that way. But he also wouldn't mind it if Marco started liking him back down the road, because what Jean felt was something simple, uncomplicated and fun to relish in when they were together.

 

He wasn't being greedy with the boy and that was the only thing that was keeping him from feeling like a complete and utter piece of trash.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

Jean's house sat on a hill that flattened on top. His backyard was even, perfect for kiddie-pools during the summer and kicking balls against the fence when he got bored. But the front of the house was a different story. It's where the hill killed him during the summer when his mother told him to mow the lawn and it had made walking almost impossible after soccer practice when he was still in it.

 

Lucky for him it was fall and cold. The grass was dirty yellow, some parts still green, but nothing was growing. Rather than that, things were actually dying on his yard, pretty things with pretty colors. Leaves.

 

Well, they were pretty to _look_ at. They weren't fun to rake after school when the wind was blowing in every which way, making it difficult for his pile down the hill of his driveway to stay in place.

 

Even in sweatpants, old but reliable sneakers, a thick jacket and a beanie, he was shivering like the leaves clinging to dear life on his naked trees. Snot was making its way down his nose, but he would harshly wipe at it before it made the unfortunate route down his lips.

 

“I need something warm,” Jean grumbled to the rake.

 

It was Thursday and Marco should have been here from the gym already. Jean's mind split to him and to the mouth watering hot chocolate his mother had made last night. She'd refused to teach him the recipe again, at this point Jean felt she was just being selfish, but he couldn't say mad. After all, she _did_ grow up with his eccentric grandmother. Some parts had to have rubbed off.

 

Leaving a few leaves here and there, Jean decided he was done. He'd been out for over an hour and a half chasing leaves in the wind. His numb and blistering hands were telling him to stop now, so he listened. He galloped his way down the hill where his piles were located, pulling out the trash bags he'd stuffed in his jacket pocket so he wouldn't have to make unnecessary trips back to the house.

 

These were his favorite kind of bags, they were the kind that were decorated as pumpkins. It made people's trash festive and he wondered why they didn't have some themed for Christmas.

 

 _They could make it look like Santa's toy sack,_ Jean thought as he shoved the leaves inside the plastic. He could feel wet leaves licking at his hands, leaving small bits of grass and pine-cone behind, _Or maybe like a snow-globe. Or both. Both is good._

 

In total, he created two bagfuls of leaves and a limpy third, tying them and leaving them huddled around their mailbox. Hopefully the garbage men would know they weren't real pumpkins like how he'd been tricked when he was younger.

 

With that over, Jean made his way up the hill and back inside. He could already feel his face and fingers defrosting as the smell of chocolate fought its way into his stuffy nose. It smelled so good, even when his mother had reheated it two hours ago, so good he almost forgot to remove his shoes before heading to the kitchen.

 

But he couldn't quite drown himself in chocolate yet. First he had to curse at the pile of dishes in the sink, ripping off his jacket and throwing it at an unfortunate counter as he spat at the ugly sight and pulled his sleeves up. He didn't use to care about the appearance of his house, but he had a guest coming over and... stuffs different now. Different as in he doesn't want Marco to think he's always dirty.

 

_When is he getting here?_

 

Jean felt the clock on the microwave taunting him. If it had eyes, it'd be squinting with a smile it couldn't really create. He tried not to think of how late Marco was, scrubbing through each and every dish until his fingers were pruned by the scalding water.

 

When he'd finished placing them in the dishwasher, he made sure not to pay any mind to the time. He dried his hands instead, then turned on the stove for the milk to boil because room temperature wasn't his thing and swept the creaky floors. His nose began to drip once he'd bent down to pick up the dust and crumbs he'd collected, hurrying to the restroom with growing anger. He wasn't sick anymore, but his body hated him and liked to make him suffer for no reason.

 

Glaring at himself in the mirror with one hand holding a tissue to his nose, Jean moved to take off his beanie. After school he'd gone to a salon with what little money his mother could give him. It'd been enough to get him the lower half of his head nicely shaved again, but not enough for hair dye. He could see his roots starting to menacingly pop.

 

_Eh, I still look alright._

 

Jean left the restroom to lay on the atrocious couches in the living room, landing with an exhausted _Umph!_. His nose was pink from all the rubbing he'd done outside and it burned a little, but the soft fabric of the sofa felt nice against his face. He ignored the discomfort of the pillows he was suffocating underneath his body, as well as the freaky collectible figurines sitting on the chimney and side tables his mother bought any chance she got, to rest his eyes for a few minutes.

 

He could hear the chocolate beginning to simmer in its pot from where he lay. It sounded thick and heavenly, but Jean was tired. If he fell asleep now, he'd probably wake up to the house in flames. Thinking he should keep himself awake, his mind wandered to a place he only knew about. A place too embarrassing to admit to anyone yet.

 

His lips poked up to a small smile, picturing a pale-brown blob with freckles and wavy hair. Jean instantly felt the cold corners of his body go up a few degrees. He might be an ice dragon, but he still needed the comfort of the sun.

 

Not that Marco should be compared to something so harsh. If there were a way to turn Marco into an everyday object, Jean knew what kind he'd be. He'd be a blanket. Not a sun, but a blanket. Marco would be king sized and fuzzy, so so fuzzy. He'd be soft like the expensive kind in Target, and thick to keep him warm whenever he felt lonely or cold. Jean's only ever been hugged by him once, but even if he had no real reference to go by, he knew Marco was warmth itself.

 

_This is so bad..._

 

A soft and gentle knock at the door made his eyes bug out as hard as his heart. He hadn't expected - or heard – anyone's car outside. Jean sprinted out of the couch, tripping on his shoes thrown near the door and hands landing hard on the floor, "Shit!"

 

He got up and straightened his clothes, kicking his shoes to the wall before peering up at the peephole. Disappointment made his heart drop down to his stomach, but at the same time he was confused. Sasha was grinning from ear to ear behind the other side, doing a funny dance with her upper body as she stood in place.

 

"What are you doing here?" Jean asked after opening the door but not letting her in yet.

 

"Jean! Your hair!"

 

“Yeah,” He brought a hand up to touch it, “what about it?”

 

Unfazed by his usual grumpy attitude, she kept her painful looking grin. There was a black book bag swinging from one of her shoulders and he knew it wasn't her school one. Hell would freeze over before this girl ever came to study... or maybe she was starting to get serious about her education now that she was with Connie...

 

"Oh, were you expecting _company_?" She asked, turning around to a roaring sound.

 

They watched as a Tahoe made its way down the street and to their direction. It had a familiar gray color with an even more familiar figure inside rolling up behind Jean's Jetta. Marco waved at them as he parked and Sasha did the same in return. Jean, on the other hand, felt even more of his sleepiness lift.

 

_I really need to get used to his lateness already._

 

"Go inside, we'll be right there," Jean ordered, stepping out with only his socks and long sleeved shirt.

 

He didn't see or hear Sasha giggling to herself as she went in without shutting the door. The only thing Jean could focus on was Marco getting out of his car. He was bundled in so many layers of clothing again, even gloves this time. It made Jean feel pity for him as he began to struggle taking out the three pumpkins he had promised to bring from the back of his car.

 

When Jean quit trying to dodge every brown pine leaf on the driveway so it wouldn't stick to his socks, he tiptoed his way quicker south. He found Marco holding onto a plastic bag that he guessed carried the carving tools while looking over the small family of pumpkin.

 

"Gimme one," Jean said, holding out his arms as his friend's head went up to the sound of his voice.

 

Marco paused, staring at him with surprise, "Your hair's gone!”

 

“Oh not you, too.”

 

Marco stopped groping the orange ball to stare, like _really_ stare, as if someone had replaced Hobo Jean with He's Alright Looking Jean and he couldn't believe it'd been possible, “What happened? Where'd that mess go?”

 

“Don't be rude, it wasn't that bad."

 

He knew it'd been that bad. Actually, the parts that hadn't been shaved still sat on his head like a birds nest. Marco didn't have to know that's what he thought about it, though.

 

“It kinda was. It looked like it'd be able to break a few steel combs.”

 

“I can think of a few things I'd like to break right now,” Jean joked, moving closer to jab Marco on his over protected belly, “Is it really that different from before?”

 

"It's just that you didn't look like that earlier today," He said, handing Jean a heavy pumpkin. It was the smallest of the bunch.

 

He watched as Marco balanced one in his arms, rolling the other so it was sandwiched against his lifted thigh and bottom part of the other pumpkin. Jean helped him secure it against his other limb with his free hand before Marco locked his car, now looking like Connie did during the play with his watermelons as they waddled up to the house.

 

"How'd I look earlier?" Jean asked, taking the plastic bag from his friends fingers to alleviate some pounds -a pound - from his stack.

 

"You looked, hm, less clear."

 

"...Explain."

 

"Like, like I don't know," Marco grunted as he lifted the pumpkins closer to his chest, "I can see your face better now is what I mean. It looks nice."

 

He smiled at Jean. It was tight and didn't reach his eyes, but he'd probably smile that way too if he were carrying two heavy ass, over grown lumps of food while wrapped in the dorky jacket Marco was in. He mentally shrugged it off, thinking it was probably nothing as he allowed himself to get a big head over that little compliment.

 

Stepping in front of Marco, the two boys went inside the house. After the shoe ritual the other had to perform and locking the door, they followed Sasha's humming voice into the kitchen. They found her with her face right above the boiling pot of milk. Her weird bag was still hanging off her excited body and Jean hoped she didn't catch fire.

 

"What'd you bring to my house?" He asked her as they set down the heavy vegetables... or was it fruit?... on the counter.

 

Sasha turned around and flipped her hair back, "Just my beautiful face and charming personality."

 

"Oh, is it in that bag you're carrying?"

 

"Jerk! I'm not staying long, so be nice. I just need help with something. I'm actually glad you showed up, Marco. That means I'll finish faster and you two can do _whatever_ it is you were going to do today."

 

"We weren't--"

 

"Don't make it sound--"

 

The two boys had spoken at the same time, causing Sasha to let out a much too loud laugh for the quiet house, "So defensive, geez. Be more friendly with one another. Anyway, will you help me or not?

 

Jean looked at Marco, thinking maybe he should kick her out, but Marco was wordlessly telling him to be nice. He huffed and crossed his arms, "What exactly do you need help with, you nut?"

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

The bag Sasha had brought with her had been filled to the brim with make-up. That make-up was now a sea covering the carpet of Jean's floor. He wouldn't admit it, but there was a nice smell coming off of it and it reminded him of the powdery stuff his mother kept in her bathroom. It was weird. He didn't know how they put perfume to stick to that stuff.

 

A less cool thing was how this was more arsenal than he'd ever seen in his life and it frightened him to know how much she paid for it. He'd tried playing with a pointy, egg-shaped sponge, but she'd slapped his hand away as if it were some grenade or something and told him not to break it.

 

It didn't take long before his imagination ran with her threat to his usual fantasy. Her possessions appeared more like gadgets for destruction rather than for the face anyways. He could totally be a spy with shit like this.

 

That clear, double-sided twisted goo wasn't mascara slash eyebrow gel, it was now an adhesive to make any hole plug up. That container shaped like a check-mark was no longer liquid eyeliner, it was now a mini gun he could use when in a tight spot with no way out. And that giant hairy ball was no longer a brush, it was poisoned needles that flew out in every direction to kill dozens of enemies in under three seconds.

 

His made up world was the only salvation he had from the torture Sasha was causing them to endure.

 

"Why are you doing this?" Jean asked, still in his fantasy.

 

Sasha concentrated harder, "I told you. My first date is next weekend and I need to get down some ideas so I can practice until the big day. Hold still... And close your eyes! I told you to close your eyes."

 

"But isn't this a little much?" Marco asked from beside Jean. Their knees were touching, but they hadn't started out that way when they first sat down.

 

"Of course not! Don't think I've forgotten what you two did to me. The first opening of a play is the most important and you guys didn't show up. So now you're my faces."

 

"Ugh, alright."

 

"I'm sorry."

 

Jean and Marco were sitting cross-legged, guilty and hushed. Their bangs were tied up with vibrant rubber bands she had also brought, looking like the way babies did when their mother's tried making whatever hair they had look stylish. All they needed now was a bow and pacifier.

 

Sasha had slathered about a gallon of foundation and concealer onto their skin to get them to be her shade, and on top of that, she had already brushed make-up on their cheeks and eyes. Right now she was finishing up rubbing blue eye shadow onto Jean's lids. His eyelashes were already coated in thick mascara and a thin line of eyeliner.

 

He felt like he'd gained at least ten pounds from all the chemicals she had slapped onto him. But the worst part was that he couldn't even see what she was doing because this actually had nothing to do with them, it was only for her eyes so their opinions didn't matter in the slightest.

 

"Ok, let's see," Sasha stopped her strokes to rummage through her lipstick pile, "I want to see how matte would look on Marco."

 

"Who's Matt? Are you going to his place now? Are we done?"

 

She laughed, " _Matte_ isn't a person, it's a texture. And don't worry, we're aaaaalmost done!"

 

Jean turned to Marco, who was already looking at him. They shared a tired expression, but deep down they knew they were having a bit of fun. It wasn't everyday that they could be pretty like this. Except, Jean could think of one thing that wasn't so fun.

 

Marco looked good, very _very_ good, but Jean couldn't help but hate that his freckles had disappeared underneath all that make-up. He was sporting purple eye shadow that transitioned to gold at the corner of his eyes. Sasha had drawn a dangerous winged linger over it and on his lashes were fake, thick and sharp ones (definitely not suited for a date at the park).

 

She made those comforting brown eyes of his pop, but the freckles... the freckles were sacrificed.

 

"Ok, you ready Marco?" Sasha asked, uncapping the tube of paint like a six year old holding lipstick for the first time.

 

"Uh..."

 

"It's ok it doesn't hurt that much," Jean tried scaring him. And it worked.

 

Sasha grabbed onto Marco's unwilling chin, pulling him closer and concentrating all over again. Her lips pouted and nostrils flared as she began to make small marks on his skin. Jean watched her... or at least that's what he thought he was doing. In reality he was watching Marco's lips.

 

"Ooo, I like this color," She whispered, "Hey, relax a little. Part your mouth... just like that!"

 

His thick lips followed the direction of her some-kind-of-pink colored tube. Even from where Jean sat, he could get a whiff of how much it smelled like bubble gum. He wanted to eat it.

 

"Hey Jean,” Sasha calmly said, “don't you think Marco's got DSL?"

 

"What the fuck is that?"

 

She kept up her easy going and nonchalant attitude, giving him a roll of her shrug as she said," _Dick. Sucking. Lips._ "

 

Marco sputtered all over her hand, but was unable to break the hold she had on him. Meanwhile, Jean began to blush underneath all that cake batter on his hot face, surprised it didn't start melting like misplaced icicles in the summer, "W-Why would you ask me that?! No, why would you _say_ that?!"

 

"The boy's got nice lips! Is it a crime to say it?"

 

"Then say it normally!”

 

“What's wrong with how I said it?”

 

“Uh, everything! Do you plan on kissing Connie with a mouth like that?!"

 

Jean had half a mind to eat the lipstick right out from her hand and shit it out ten years later while Sasha did her own sputtering. Being the bigger person, though, he decided to just flick her on the nose. She jerked away from him and his hard fingers, making her go out of line and smear bright pink across Marco's cheek.

 

She gasped, "Jean, look at what you made me do!" She started licking her thumb and moving to clean up the mark, but Marco finally broke away from her hand and scooted back like a frightened cat.

 

"Were you about to--"

 

Sasha laughed, "I'm sorry! I really was about to put my spit on you."

 

"Save that game for your boyfriend,” Jean said, not wanting to let her off the hook yet.

 

She shoved him, but not hard or seriously. Her smile only grew when she blushed and nodded. Her glee was almost tangible as she stared at the two boys - as if she really couldn't believe she was allowed to do that to her _boyfriend_ \- and it was too sweet for Jean to handle.

 

“Are you finished torturing us?”

 

"Yes. I'm done, I'm done. Help me pack so I can go to my next victims."

 

"Tell me they're girls this time."

 

"Or at least someone who wouldn't mind wearing make-up," Marco said, scooping up whatever he could and dumping it in her bag. His eyes were fluttering as if the fake lashes irritated his vision.

 

"Trust me, Armin's grandpa has been my face for a few years now and he doesn't mind it one bit... unlike some people."

 

"Then why didn't you go to him first?"

 

"Because you live closer."

 

“Fair enough,” Jean got down on his hands and knees to help pick up, but it didn't take not even a second before he got distracted. A shiny and thick clear tube caught his eye. He held it up in the light and noticed how it looked like sugar, "Hey, what's this stuff?"

 

"Glitter dust,” She responded without really looking, “Why?"

 

"I'm borrowing it. And this and this."

 

He grabbed a couple eyeliners and went back to helping. Sasha didn't say no, but she did give him a concerned face. From behind her, Marco gave him a secret thumbs up. They couldn't afford any face make-up last week when they'd bought their costumes, so this opportunity saved them from spending anymore money.

 

Jean was embarrassed to feel a little proud at himself from just that small gesture, but he returned the thumbs up and quickly went back to helping.

 

Once they were done and she was all packed and ready to go, they stood up and stretched their limbs. Sasha shoved her hand down her sweater while they cracked their joints. There was a bit of gross shuffling until she pulled out her phone from somewhere in her bra, aiming it in their direction.

 

"For reference," She explained.

 

The boys were still feeling guilty enough to go along and waited for her to get it over with, but she frowned. Without saying a word, she moved them closer to one another, putting Marco's shoulder just a bit behind Jean's so they'd fit in the photo. Still not satisfied, she moved Jean's head low and near his friend's breathing space.

 

"Strike a pose," She said with a vague accent.

 

"We're not gonna--"

 

Jean felt Marco move. When he looked over at the boy, he noticed he'd made his hand in the shape of a gun, hollowing his cheeks to soften up his strong jaw... not that it worked, but his lips seemed extra plumpy that way. He had a serious look on his face until he noticed Jean judging him.

 

"W-What? It's for the picture."

 

"What are you supposed to be?"

 

"A spy, you know, like Charlie's Angels. That's what my make-up makes me feel like."

 

"Oh," Jean's heart stuttered, "Alright. Let's do it."

 

He mimicked Marco's hand shaped gun and intensified his gaze at the camera. He and Marco were undercover spies now and the three pumpkins downstairs were evil men who wanted to leak information to their idiot boss. Soon, their guts would be in the sink and their faces would be carved with beautiful decorations as a reward for witnessing their fantastic visages.

 

"One, two, three! Got it!," She smiled at her phone, "Wow, not bad guys."

 

"Thanks, now go."

 

"Walk me out!"

 

Remembering a conversation he'd had with Sasha a couple weeks ago, a plan popped into Jean's head. He looked over at Marco's freckless face and said, "You can go clean up first. Yell if you need a shovel."

 

"Ok," Marco giggled, "Bye, Sash."

 

"Bye Marcookie! Thanks for lending me your face!"

 

“Thanks for making it look older than fifteen,” He waved a weak goodbye and disappeared out of the room.

 

When Jean heard the lock of the bathroom door, he lead Sasha downstairs, pulling her by her skinny wrist. He really wanted some privacy with her because of what he wanted to clear up. And he knew that _she_ knew what was on his mind. Or at least she could guess that he wanted Marco out of earshot.

 

When they were in the safe distance of the entrance, Jean let go of her and whispered, "Why did you lie to me?"

 

She looked genuinely confused, but he knew what an actress she could be, "What are you talking about?"

 

"Listen, don't act all innocent. You know what. Why'd you lie about Marco's... about his experience with other boys? It's not nice to spread false rumors."

 

"Wait. Don't tell me you actually asked him if he's ever sucked--"

 

Jean put a hand over her mouth, and hissed, "Whisper! Learn how to whisper!"

 

She rolled her eyes and unlatched his rough hand from her vacuum hole, "Ok, so maybe I did tell you a little white lie."

 

" _Why_?"

 

She shrugged, "I just wanted to see your reaction. I thought you wouldn't've believed me, but you kind of fell for it really fast. I never expected you to worm it out of him. How'd you do it?"

 

"I knew you were out of your mind, but not this much," Jean sighed, feeling his confusion from Tuesday jump off his shoulders. He knew Marco wouldn't suck _that_ with someone he'd only been with for three months. He couldn't even say dick out loud for Pete's sake!, "Hope you enjoyed whatever reaction you were looking for because you won't be seeing it again."

 

"Oh yes, I did find it, thank you very much," She smiled, "Bye Jean! I've got a date with a fifty year old cutie."

 

Sasha swung the door open, scurrying like a sly fox out of the house, "Ask him if he's seen your brain!"

 

"Oh!” She ignored his comment, “I'll stop my sleeping over since you've kinda become _busy_ with Mr. DSL now, alright?"

 

Jean couldn't believe her. It was like she was _trying_ to feed him dirty thoughts. Instead of responding back, Jean flipped her off and shut the door. He trudged all the way back to his room, wondering what kind of face he might've made when Sasha lied about Marco that day in the drama room as he sat on the bottom bunk of his bed.

 

It's not like he'd been jealous or angry about what she'd said. He hadn't even been aware of his feelings then. Jean wanted to rub his face in frustration, sometimes his friends really knew how to get under his skin, but then he remembered the layers of crap making its way into his pores and stopped his hands midway.

 

" _To say that you are cute, would be like saying a strawberry is sweet..._ "

 

Jean froze. Behind the sound of water running in the bathroom (next to his bedroom), he could hear something else. It took him a couple seconds to realize it was Marco. Singing. He was singing and it made Jean forget the oncoming headache Sasha tried cursing onto him.

 

"... _'Cause a strawberry has secret flavors that are sharp, and tart, and red, and deep..._ "

 

He pressed his ear against the wall to get a better sense of what he was saying. There was a bubbly sound, like if his mouth was being muffled by water running down his face. Jean noticed how he'd almost failed to realize how this was actually the most he's spoken in all day. Maybe Sasha really had freaked him out with the make-up.

 

"... _And I would love to find you growing wild out by the woods, I would make a basket with the front of my t-shirt and take home as many as you as I could_...”

 

The lyrics weren't familiar. He tried remembering what songs Marco had played during their mini roadtrip but came up with nothing. Well, he didn't even try hard enough, thinking plus listening counted as multitasking and he couldn't do that.

 

“... _And to say that you are pretty, would be like saying saying that the ocean is blue_..."

 

Jean continued to listen to muffled lyrics in his quiet room. His heart was at ease and like he knew it would, it didn't feel so lonely today. Jean was aware that he was a jerk, and lazier than most people, but he had friends who didn't care. And one who really liked hanging out with him and fit nicely with his personality like a fucked up puzzle.

 

“... _Cause the ocean is full of all kinds of colors, and I see all kinds of things when I look at you_...”

 

He smiled as he closed his eyes, leaning against the wall. Even if these lyrics weren't for him and they were hard to hear over a wall, it was the first time he'd heard Marco singing and it made him giddy. It was another memory to add to his collection and Jean couldn't help but remember the cheesy words he'd written in psychology class:

 

_I haven't really felt bad lately, so I don't know if this'll be memories I take with me when I'm having a bad day, but I want to write it anyway. I've made a friend (probably the bestest friend I've ever had) and whenever I'm upset or something I pick any memory I have with him and replay it. It's hard to write about only one so I guess I'll mention what's happened most recently._  
_Last Tuesday we went to a Halloween store that's not really a Halloween store and we tried on these super flashy costumes. While he was in the fitting room I was waiting outside minding my own business, I don't think he noticed this, but when he was changing out of his pants his entire butt popped out against the curtain. Picture a flat, flat surface with a butt. That's what I saw. And it never fails to make me laugh._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I'm teasing you guys every time I update and don't write about the club. If it was up to me it would've happened in this chapter, but noooo Jean just _had_ to have another day with his bff and ugh. I can't promise Marco will want to jump right into it either.
> 
>  
> 
> But who knows, I don't run this show anymore.


	18. Iridescent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco discovers hormones.

If there were a word Marco would use to describe Micah's room, it'd be tiny. Just like his. It was a simple box that did its job of providing comfort and escape, but inside it it couldn't be as different as rock and cotton. Somehow Micah had created the worlds messiest room – and not in the “It looks like a tornado passed through here!” kind of sense, more like in the “I was bored so I had ice cream with peanut butter scoops drowned in coke and sprinkled with coconut shavings and raisins” kind of way.

 

He had cyan colored walls that hadn't seen the day of light since he was eleven – which was a good thing because it'd been punctured by dozens and dozens of armature nail holes. The blue was hiding behind his collection of random posters he'd picked up from stranger's trash on the driveway or some he had begged their mom to get at garage sales.

 

He had one large dresser next to his cramped, twin-sized bed that carried all sorts of knickknacks on top – from normal things to lotion, band-aids, markers and school papers to more bizarre objects like baby teeth, snail shells he'd picked up from the ground and jewelry that Marco knew didn't belong to anyone in the house. You name it, he had it.

 

There was also a desk near the door where the family computer was located, and it was about the only clean place for his room's standards. Even then, though, it was surrounded by empty juice bottles and crumbled up snack wrappings, with the worst thing on there being aged crumbs.

 

All these aspects made the room seem that much more smaller and cramped, but Marco liked spending time in there. Somehow his brother's disastrous way of living made him feel relaxed, like if his life – compared to the room – was in perfect order.

 

“Another cat.”

 

The boys were on social media – Marco on his phone with his body taking over the tiny bed while Micah complained on his own bean bag chair with the laptop balanced on his knees.

 

It was a Friday night, way past their bedtime, but they refused to admit they were sleepy yet. Marco had had to work tonight, which came to no surprise to anyone, but he still felt upset about missing out on Halloween again this year and decided to reward himself this way.

 

Micah was no happier than him. Every now and then he'd sigh or groan at whatever fun he was seeing on the screen.

 

“It's not fair,” He sighed particularly louder.

 

“What's not fair?”

 

“When's mom gonna let me go out with my friends on my own? I'm almost fourteen and I can't even go trick-or-treating around the neighborhood without her freaking out about it.”

 

“There's no such thing as _almost_ in mom's dictionary. Just think of it as a right of passage. You know I wasn't allowed to go out with friends until my freshman year, but now I don't even have to come home sometimes.”

 

Micah blew air out of his nose, “But she still makes you call her, like, all the time. Is that really any different than what I'm dealing with?”

 

“Yes, very,” Marco looked at him. The light from the laptop hitting his face made it seem like he didn't have any freckles, “You'll have your freedom eventually, just wait and see.”

 

“Ugh, waiting.”

 

They went back to silence with the occasional huff playing in the background. Marco chewed on his nail as he refreshed his Instagram feed with a semi-broken heart. He felt a crack in it after every picture of candy stashes and costumes he saw, skipping videos that'd originally been uploaded to Snapchat. But he still gave a jealous like to everything.

 

Marco couldn't blame their mother the way Micah did. Getting a job was his own choice, and although it did cause him to miss out on whatever teenagers were doing nowadays, working wasn't something he had to debate about having. It was a necessity in order for them to not starve more than they did and sometimes he wondered why his mom didn't like him doing it.

 

She of all people should know how hard it was to make ends meet. Sure he fainted that _one_ time, but that'd been because he hadn't organized his schedule right. School and work and BJJ had sneaked up on him, but he was better now. Sort of.

 

He was still bombing quizzes in language arts and when work got busy he slept rather than worked on homework after his shift ended. But he knew he could get his life in order if he really tried.

 

“Hey, it's officially November now,” Micah announced, typing with a turtle's pace on the keyboard.

 

“Oh really?”

 

“Yea—wait,” He squinted at the screen to make sure, then grinned at him, “No, yeah, it says it right there under the time.”

 

Marco knew what he was implying. He could feel the optimism leaking out of his brother's pores but it wasn't the same for him. Only a small fraction of himself was happy they were going to finally see their father, but fear of his reaction when seeing them after specifically telling them _not_ to go overtook any excitement he was holding.

 

But not wanting to spoil his brother's excitement – or show his concerns – Marco decided to humor him, “You might have to take the wheel if I get too tired on the road since we're leaving at the crack of dawn.”

 

“What? _Può ripetere, per favore_?”

 

“Oh, I know you heard me,” Marco drew his eyebrows up and shrugged, “I don't know if you remember, you probably don't since you were small – but we had to take a short stop at a Motel when we went with dad. And even _that's_ over three hours away, so if I can't make it...”

 

Micah gripped the laptop with both hands, eyes and mouth wide in disbelief, “Oh my gosh, I have to call Felix.”

 

“Felix?”

 

“Can I use your phone? I really have to call him. His Granna got bit by squirrel on the neck and now she has rabbis so she can't drive us to the sink hole in December when it opens for the public because she's gotta go to the hospital for her shots every month and if I drive to dad's then that means I can drive forev—”

 

“Whoa, breathe,” Marco stopped him, half a smile stuck on his face because he wasn't entirely sure of what he'd just heard, “I was just kidding... _What_ happened to Mrs. Henderson? Didn't she already have rabbis?”

 

“Wh _at_?!” Micah's voice cracked, “You were just kidding? Marco, you know how I feel about the sink hole.”

 

“I'm sorry, I—I didn't know it was opening... but is she alright?”

 

Micah sunk low into the sack of Styrofoam, clearly upset, “No, she's got rabbis. And she didn't 'already have it', the deer was her pet. Felix said she raised it in their backyard with the bunny I babysat for a week, but after it bit her they ate him anyway.”

 

“Oh. I'm sorry about Granna and about... lying... and about everything else?”

 

Micah ignored him.

 

“I won't do it again,” Marco nudged his finger on his brother's pinky toe to get his attention. When he still wouldn't pay him any mind, he ignored his roll as a step-in father and more like a guilty older brother who'd just made the little one cry, “... Ok, what if I let you drive for five minutes if the highway's empty? And I'll take you and Felix to the sink hole in December if you want?”

 

Micah still looked mad, but he responded, “You better not be lying again.”

 

“I'm not, I promise I'm not,” He crossed his heart and gave him an OK sign with his fingers, “It's only fair anyways since Dad let me take the wheel while he was brushing his teeth. “

 

“You liar.”

 

“No, really! He had one hand on his toothbrush while the other held this big jug of water. All he did was control the pedals while I steered, but I'm sure letting you take the whole thing will be... alright.”

 

He could tell Micah didn't believe any of the words that'd left his mouth – and rightfully so , “Fine. Sure. But if you don't let me then I'm going to hang out with you at your friends' parties until I'm able to go on my own.”

 

“Um. No. No parties. Mom wouldn't even let you.”

 

“We've met your friends, bro, they're not really what we'd consider cool so she'd definitely let me. And if you stick to your promise we won't have any problems, right?”

 

_Man. He's got her personality._

 

Marco frowned. It was true that most of the people in their group were a bit on the dorky side, but that didn't mean their get togethers were PG-13. With drunk Eren trying to inappropriately woo Armin, Sasha puking in tubs, Reiner stripping while he danced to slow country songs and other horrendous things – he couldn't let Micah be around that. Or let him know he participated in some.

 

“No parties,” Marco repeated, sternly this time, “Because I'll be keeping my word.”

 

“Suuure. Whatever you say.”

 

“I'll remember, don't worry,” He reassured, and as if they had felt him judging from afar, a notification from one of his friends on his Instagram caught his attention. It was a direct message from Sasha.

 

He clicked on the basket logo on top of the app and felt his insides twist.

 

She had sent the picture of him and Jean from yesterday, face full of make-up and posing as water-downed Charlie's Angels spies. He looked so bad, so so so bad, all he could do was wince at the face that had unfortunately belonged to him.

 

“Oh, god,” He whimpered to himself.

 

His eyes had been bigger than the wad of gum underneath his first period desk – creepy like a porcelain dolls' with intentions of murder – and his nonexistent lashes had been so long he'd been sure enough he would've been able to fly away if he blinked hard enough. _Not that he tried_. But worst of all were his lips, oh man his lips. He'd understood why Sasha had said he had DSL. It was as if half his face was lip while the rest struggled for room.

 

Marco shivered, almost throwing his phone across the room to make the agony go away before remembering he wasn't alone in the photo.

 

_Jean_

 

Yeah. He looked way better. Marco couldn't even pretend to deny it. With his 1970's-looking cheekbones dusted in artificial pink, making it more prominent than usual, he wouldn't have minded cutting his thumb across it. They'd beckoned for his attention just as strongly as the blue shimmer on Jean's eyelids, and they seemed to be talking to him even now through the picture.

 

_He's probably telling me to quit staring so hard._

 

But what he liked the most about the way Sasha had dolled him up were _his_ lips. They had popped and smacked after she'd rubbed it with sticky shine, mesmerizing him and tying his tongue into a knot whenever Jean sneaked a glance at him.

 

In her effort to make him pucker up for a better view, Marco had noticed from the side how Jean's top lip was thicker than the bottom. He didn't know what to do with this new information, but at least now he understood why he loved looking at Jean's scowl so much.

 

“Why you smiling like that?” Micah asked, a hint of amused curiousness in his tone.

 

“... ,” Marco froze and debated on whether or not he should show him the dishonorable picture. If he did – he wouldn't hear the end of it, if he didn't – Micah would think he was texting a boy... and he wouldn't hear the end of it. He gave in since it was harmless anyway, extending his arm and preparing for an explanation, “Yesterday at Jea--”

 

“Pwah!!!”

 

Micah fell off the bean bag chair, clutching onto his stomach as he howled with laughter on the floor. If he'd been sitting somewhere higher the poor laptop wouldn't have made it.

 

“Hey, _shhh_ , mom'll wake up!” Marco reminded, trying to lamely distract him from the embarrassment he brought upon himself to the danger of an angry mother.

 

“Dude, oh my gosh,” Micah wheezed, “is that what you always do when you're together?”

 

“No! It's just, Sasha came over yesterday and she needed help with something so that's what we did – we _helped_ her.”

 

“Help with what? Finding clowns? Ha!”

 

“Yeah, and I offered your face for next time.”

 

Micah didn't look like he took him seriously, but he stopped his teasing in fear that his big brother could make it happen. Instead he let his giggles die down, changing the subject with a tired smile, “You've been hanging out with Jean a lot more.”

 

“I have?” He dumbly asked.

 

He was aware. But Marco knew his brother well and his brother knew him just as good. If he started listing all the reasons why they were hanging out so much, Micah would start singing the K-I-S-S-I-N-G song.

 

“Yeah, 's weird since you never hanged out before.”

 

“Well that's because we didn't have classes before. Now we do and we just sort of clicked.”

 

Micah remained on the floor, laying on top of a pile of dirty laundry that Marco hadn't stopped smelling since the moment he entered the room, “Oh you clicked?”

 

“Mhmm.”

 

“That's good, that's really good.”

 

_Oh no, it's that tone, here it comes._

 

“Yep.”

 

“... So are you guys _dating_?” Micah mused, taunting him as he found a chewed up pencil underneath a sock, “It's been forever since you've mentioned anything about having a boyf--”

 

“No. No we're not dating,” Marco answered too quickly, realizing his mistake when his brother grew a smirk on his face, but the battle wasn't over yet, “We've only been friends for a short time. We couldn't date so quickly.”

 

“Oooh, I get it. You're waiting so you can date later.”

 

_He's bringing out the big guns! Blunt from the start!_

 

“No, Jean just barely considered me as a friend--”

 

“You were rejected already?! You bring shame to the family!”

 

“ _No_ , calm down. I'm just saying we can't see each other in that way because we're friends.”

 

“I don't get it. What do you mean _can't_? It's not like there's a rule where people can't date their friends. Isn't that how it sorta works?”

 

_Where did that wisdom come from? Surprise attack? – I'm dying here!_

 

“Yeah, but-but me and Jean only see each other as really good friends. That's it.”

 

“You could've just said that first,” Micah yawned and took his bean chair as a pillow, “But it's stupid to wait a certain amount of time to ask someone out. If you like someone, you like someone. If you're friends that's even better. Like, if Felix was girl I wouldn't have to try so hard.”

 

“You should only be trying hard to get good grades. And it's not always that easy. You can't always be lucky enough to have your friends like you back.”

 

“I know, but I was just wonderin' about you guys because you look different whenever you're talking with him on the phone.”

 

“Different how?” He anxiously asked.

 

“I dunno. Just different. More you.”

 

_Ack! He got me._

 

“Well, we're nothing but good friends so don't go saying weird things to mom.”

 

“I don't see what the big deal is, but ok.”

 

“The big deal is... never mind.”

 

If he wanted to, Marco could've told him how complicated things got when you're older. He could've told him that sometimes you have to bite your tongue and staple your hands to your lap even though you really don't want to because if you don't, you could scare someone, make them uncomfortable or worse – make them distance themselves from you for doing something you could've avoided.

 

But he would never be able to say any of those things. He knew that when thirteen turned to fifteen, or seventeen, or whatever age romance would greet his brother, experience would answer his wonders in more detail than Marco ever could.

 

“I think it's about time we go to sleep,” Marco said, smiling as he got up from the bed.

 

Micah nodded but didn't get up from the floor. The roundness of his face seemed to disappear more with each and every passing day, letting them all know that puberty wasn't quite done with him yet. It hurt to think of a Micah that wasn't interested in sink holes or abandoned paintings.

 

Marco watched him cuddle with the bag before closing the door behind him and entering his own just a couple steps away. He'd left the lights on after his shower a few hours earlier and decided to keep them that way as he dragged himself to a better fitting mattress.

 

He was tired, but sleep was futile. His body was sore from work and working out, stiff but in a good and accomplished way. His mind, on the other hand, was racing in a marathon with a thousand Jean's yelling at him on the sidelines to stop being stubborn and get some rest.

 

But how could he when Micah had almost crumbled his excuses? Really, why _did_ he feel so bad about liking his friend? Nobody but him was aware, nobody but him was chiding him. Was the only reason he felt bad because they hadn't been friends long enough? … Was he just waiting for Jean to like him back?

 

_Bzz, bzz, bzz_

 

“Mm!” Marco jerked, feeling his phone vibrate underneath his thigh. His heart jumped a second time when he saw who'd messaged him. Of course Jean would go texting him right when he was having complicated thoughts about him.

 

 **From: Mr. Twitch**  
**\--CAN YOU BELIEVE HER? I CAN'T BELIEVE SHE SENT THAT THROUGH INSTRAGAM**

 

_Guess he got the picture_

 

**\--ONE WRONG MOVE AND SHE COULD'VE POSTED IT FOR THE WHOLE WORLD TO SEE!!**

 

**To: Mr. Twitch**  
**\--Jean it's past midnight. Why are you awake and angry at a time like this?**

 

**From: Mr. Twitch**  
**\--I WAS BORN THIS WAY. And you're one to talk. You're up too aren't ya? So why are YOU awake?**

 

**To: Mr. Twitch**  
**\--I think I asked you first**

 

**From: Mr. Twitch**  
**\--Are we really doing this again?**

 

**To: Mr. Twitch**  
**\--Well I did ask first. Why don't you ever give me a straight answer?**

 

**From: Mr. Twitch**  
**\--Because I'm not straight**

 

Jean sent him an emoji face soon after that message, but Marco didn't need to see that – or read what he'd said – to be reminded of how straight he wasn't. He was very well aware, too aware these past few days, of that fact.

 

_Change subject!_

 

**To: Mr. Twitch**  
**\--Did you go trick or treating?**

 

**From: Mr. Twitch**  
**\--You bet ur ass I did. I got bored at home giving out candy so I left. What about you?**

 

**To: Mr. Twitch**  
**\--Left?... No I had work :(**

 

**From: Mr. Twitch**  
**\--I left the neighborhood and... I kinda ended up at some weird ass spot.**

 

**To: Mr. Twitch**  
**\--Where are you? Are you alright?**

 

**From: Mr. Twitch**  
**\--I have no idea. It looks kinda familiar but not really**

 

Marco sat up, feeling the crease of worry in between his eyebrows as he contemplated if he should call or not. It only too a millisecond for him to press the call button next to Jean's name, and much to his liking, he picked up on the second ring.

 

“Hello?” Jean asked, all formally and calm.

 

“Are you lost? Do you need me to go pick you up?... This better not me some sort of joke, Jean. Bad stuff can happen on Halloween.”

 

The other end of the line was silent, minus rustling noises that sounded a lot like plastic. He heard a soft curse before Jean spoke, “I'm not joking. I really am in a weird ass place. Maybe I have been here before...hmm...”

 

“What kind of place is it? Do you see an address anywhere? Or people?”

 

“I'm in front of someone's house. Its got ghosts on its windows and I think a witch crashed on their tree, they're probably gonna need a lawyer,” He tsked, “Oh and there's also these cool ass pumpkins around their mailbox... a couple of them look like shit, though. They remind me of someone _else's_ shitty pumpkins. That's probably why it looks so familiar.”

 

_Why is he being mean to fruit at a time like this?_

 

Yesterday Jean had said his pumpkin was crappy too, with all its jagged holes and clumsy knife marks. But it wasn't Marco's fault he put excessive force into carving, the dang things were just too soft and he'd forgotten to take it easy.

 

Even still, they had both put in the same amount of effort on the third and final pumpkin because Jean hadn't wanted to do the work all by himself, ending up with a creature of their mixed skills.

 

“Wait a minute,” Marco stiffened when he registered what Jean had said. He sprang out of bed and darted to the window, phone still in hand and heart going from leisurely walking to mild jogging. The coldness from the glass made his skin prickle as he caught sight of his own reflection and nothing more.

 

Jean cleared his throat, “I-I see you.”

 

“Where are you?” Marco whispered, nervous while he searched in the darkness for his friend. Friend. Friend. Friend.

 

He got no response, but then saw the light of Jean's phone waving at him like if he were in some concert – here for the famous Marco Bodt of Jinae who can sing so-and-so, but avoids high notes and was wearing mismatched pajamas that he'd never want anyone to see him in.

 

“Stay put,” Marco said when the light disappeared, “I'll be out in a sec.”

 

“Ok.”

 

The boys hung up, and with haste Marco left the window to search for his Walmart slippers, finding one under his pillow and the other stuffed in the closet. He shoved them on just as harshly as he had carved pumpkins and rigidly headed downstairs to grab his coat from the floor where he hadn't initially left it.

 

When he was done zipping it up he headed to the back door. A trick he'd been using for the past three years now to not make the hinges squeal when opening it was to spray it with Febreze or whatever sprays were available. And when that door silently opened for him, he gently closed it back and felt the air rush out of his warm lungs.

 

The coldness had creeped up the worn out cacti pants he's had since he was able to drag them on the floor but now hung around his ankles, stealing all of his accumulated heat right through his butt. But that didn't stop him from going.

 

Marco tripped on a tree root, fumbled for balance on a particularly large pine-cone trying to steal his slipper, got barked at by the neighbors chihuahua, and went head first into a spiders web before he was even out of his backyard.

 

Now _that_ had almost stopped him. But once he saw Jean in the distance – being his awkward self and standing next to the mailbox, his feet found the ground again and he marched his way forward. When his eyes adjusted to the dark Marco noticed a heavy bag swinging from one of his hands while the other tucked his phone away.

 

“What are you doing here?” Marco asked when he was close enough, out of breath from the dangerous obstacles he'd gone through.

 

“Oh I was just in the neighborhood and decided, hm, why not?”

 

“I can think of a few reasons,” He said, happy everything was alright but still kind of confused, “What if someone mugged you or mistaken you for a burglar on your way over?”

 

Jean rolled his dark eyes and stomped, “But _dad_ , it's Halloween and no one's gonna think that.”

 

“Can't be too careful... What's in the bag?”

 

Without opening or saying much, Jean shook it. It sounded exactly like what Marco thought it'd be. Candy. Lots and lots of sweet candy.

 

“Whoa, did you really get all that?”

 

Jean looked satisfied, “Hell yeah I did!”

 

“You didn't steal it from some poor kid, did you?”

 

“No! Even _I_ wouldn't stoop that low.”

 

Marco crossed his arms, “Did you even wear a costume? I don't see you in one.”

 

“Uh, nope,” He monotonously answered.

 

“Did you... did you buy the candy, Jean?”

 

“What? No, why would I-I wouldn't pretend to go trick-or-treating alone just to have an excuse to see you at this time of night. Pf-Pfft. C'mon Marco. Just take the candy.”

 

 _Oh right,_ I'm _the one who'd do something like that._

 

Marco loyally trusted his words, because really – like he said – who in there right mind would pick twelve (almost one) in the morning to drop by? Well, no one but Marco. He had lied to Jean about having had spare pumpkins at home when in reality he had gone to the farmers market after gym class to buy them. So this seemed right up his alley.

 

It just hadn't sat well with him that Jean rarely got the chance to decorate his house on his favorite holiday. And when he saw how happy the boy looked when they placed their pumpkins outside, Marco had been glad he lied.

 

“Are you taking them or not?” Jean snapped, hand outstretched in front of him.

 

“Oh, they're really for me?”

 

“Yeah... if you want them.”

 

“I do, but what about you? Don't you want some for yourself?”

 

“Duh. I'll just eat them whenever I hang out at your place, so don't get greedy.”

 

Marco's cold face warmed up a few degrees as he took the plastic grocery bag, smiling at his friend with a thank you. Jean met him with the same sentiment but not with his lips. His eyes were the ones doing the smiling, and they were so unusually clear and sincere that Marco had to look away.

 

His eyes shot down to their hands when he felt their fingers accidentally brush against one another. He had expected Jean to jerk his hand away like always so he wouldn't catch any _freckled cooties_ , but that didn't happen this time.

 

Jean's icicle thumb gently stroked over his – chilling and rough to the touch. He even let it linger for a while, watching the other with curiousness that Marco could only dismiss as reassurance that he didn't feel bad for giving him all his hard-working candy.

 

His heartbeat, on the other hand, wasn't as logical.

 

“Ok, I'm off,” Jean hummed, breathing it out with a grin that made the winter-coming weather bearable.

 

Marco dreamily stood there, murmuring a soft, “Already?”

 

“What?”

 

“I said alright.”

 

“Okay... weirdo.”

 

“Hey, wait,” He ignored his comment and remembered how worried he still felt, “Let me walk you home since it's this late.”

 

“Ah? For what? Nothing's going to happen.”

 

“You don't know that. Why didn't you take your car?”

 

“Because who has that kind of gas money? You really are such a dad sometimes. I'll be fine, go to sleep.”

 

“I won't be able to sleep if I don't take you... And I am _not_ such a dad.”

 

“But I don't live a mile away, Papa!” Jean cried, snickering at Marco's reaction to the name, “Seriously, it's only five minutes to my house.”

 

“So then let me walk you for three.”

 

“Stop being so stubborn, I can walk myself!”

 

“No. Not having it. I'm walking you.”

 

Marco started without him – Jean stumbling to keep up with his long strides after the words had registered, probably shocked that he hadn't been listened to, but Marco was feeling grossly protective over this boy. What if some jerky group of kids who hadn't gone to bed yet decided to scare him? He'd would try to fight them if that'd happen. And he'd probably lose, too.

 

“Quit walking so fast!”

 

“Who's walking fast? This is my normal speed.”

 

“Like hell it is. I've seen you walk at school, you're doing it on purpose!”

 

“You stalking me?” Marco joked, hoping to get Jean's mind off being escorted home, but he wasn't having it.

 

“Seriously, you don't have to—look at what you're wearing, what if someone sees you?”

 

“You've already seen me, keep up.”

 

“Why's it only dangerous for me? Who's going to watch you make it back home?” Jean's intentions were far from _keeping up_. He grabbed Marco by the arm and whirled him around to face him.

 

The candy bag Marco was clutching on to bounced from his leg to Jean's like a pendulum swing, hurting him a little in the process. Its crinkling sound and the howl of the eavesdropping wind were the only noises shared in the empty street as they stared at one another.

 

Jean's face was just as surprised as Marco's, not meaning to have grabbed him so hard, but now it was slowly forming into a neutral expression. One that Marco couldn't decode and frustrated him to no end because Jean was usually an open book.

 

He didn't like that while Jean had recovered so quickly from his actions, Marco was growing painfully aware of their close proximity. The small amount of warmth radiating from his friends skin invited him in like a Siren's song, and if he dared run a finger across Jean's cheek like how he'd wanted to in the picture, he'd be shredded to nothing like ships crashing onto jagged rocks.

 

_This is bad._

 

Without meaning to Marco looked down at his lips, waiting for him to say something, _anything_ to snap him out of this trance – because heaven knows he couldn't do it himself... But Marco didn't want the help, not really. He hoped Jean wouldn't utter a single word until he froze like an icicle there in the middle of the road.

 

Their puffs of breath blended into one another, only visible due to the lamplight down the corner of the street. With that little shine Marco could make out the rosiness on the tip of Jean's nose and the cracks on his parted lips. His adorable, cracked, duck-like lips.

 

He could also _feel_ just how hard Jean was breathing out of his mouth. His breath was crashing onto his face softly and unforgivably, and he wondered if that's how he'd taste. All he had to do to find out was hold Jean by the chin and close the remaining space between them...

 

_Dammit, why are you just standing there?_

 

“Ok,” Marco ripped his eyes away before making a _huge_ mistake that he'd never be able to take back, shifting his gaze on the hand still grasping his onto arm, “Ok, I won't walk you home, but only if we stay on the phone until you're there. Otherwise I'm taking you.”

 

“Nothing's g-gonna happen,” He repeated, dropping his hand like a limp noodle.

 

“Please. Jean.”

 

“... Fine. Call me.”

 

Marco's shoulders eased up with relief. There was no way he could walk Jean to his house when he felt like his jelly legs would give out at any moment. Just why hadn't he backed up when their noses could've bumped in together with the tiniest of movements?

 

No. That didn't matter at the moment. What _did_ matter was that Marco had stopped himself before the last shreds of his willpower had disappeared. If not, he really would've brought shame to the family.

 

Everyday it seemed like his condition was worsening, and if things kept going on this way he didn't know what he'd do. If, that is, he could do anything about it. It most certainly didn't help that Jean was getting accustomed to their growing skin-ship.

 

When they had their phones against their ears, Marco gave him a halfhearted wave, “I'll see you tomorrow. And thank you for the candy.”

 

He could hear his voice echo on Jean's side as he started turning away, “Yeah, no problem, see ya.”

 

Marco remained in place as Jean started strolling down the street. Just because he couldn't take him home, it didn't mean watching him until he was safely halfway out the neighborhood was prohibited. Plus it was calming looking at his back when his front caused him so much trouble.

 

It was only then when he _really_ noticed what Jean was wearing. He was stuffed in a meaty coat, a scarf, boots and what looked like double sweatpants – the only way he could tell was because of the pant lines creasing against his baggy sweats. He also had on a knitted beanie and was currently struggling to take out gloves from his coat with one hand. Jean, Marco noticed, had came prepared.

 

“Hey! That's cheating!” Jean yelled when he turned back to see him still standing there. He hadn't walked far enough to be shouting like that. Not to mention how they were connected by phones.

 

“One more word and I'll walk you home!” Marco immaturely yelled back to show how much it hurt.

 

Jean's eyes narrowed, “Fuck! Alright! Bye!”

 

_He didn't get it._

 

“Bye!”

 

“ _Bye_!”

 

“... Goodbye!”

 

“Marco! Jesus, goodbye!”

 

He laughed into the phone at Jean's obliviousness, contaminating the other with it even if he had no idea why he was chuckling along. But laughs were funny like that, they were the opposite of what a yawn was but worked just the same. 

 

When he saw Jean nearing the short-cut house, he started whistling a tune that struck Marco's memory. He knew he'd heard it somewhere before – it was definitely one of his songs – but he couldn't figure out which one. He didn't think it important enough to interrupt him, though.

Marco happily listened even after Jean had disappeared from his view.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

Having lived in one place for a particularly long time tends to grow a love for a specific spot in your home. You could love – or hate – the whole thing to pieces, but there's always that one window where the sun shines a bit brighter or that one bathroom that's more comfier for private crying sessions than the others.

 

Marco's favorite was where he was seated. In the living room. Their couches were coffee brown – the kind that'd had too much creamer poured into it but not to the point where it looked like melted vanilla ice cream – and it'd remained soft even after all these years.

 

He loved them because they were good for watching _That 70's Show_ on when he was slowly passing out after a long day at work and only loving them a little less when they ate his pocket change. But even then he still saw the best in them – as one big piggy bank when his family got desperate for take-out on Friday nights.

 

Currently, he was sitting next to his mom, head on her shoulder but with most of its weight on the cushion behind him in order not to hurt her. She was watching one of the movies Reiner had recommended for her to watch, somehow they never seemed to run out not even after two years since the recommendations had started.

 

Micah was on the other sofa, laying on it like _one of those French girls_ with a frown on his face. He didn't like Lifetime movies. He always thought they were boring, but if you waited about fifteen minutes more minutes after it started, he'd start asking questions about what was going on and why that woman was digging a giant hole in her backyard.

 

“ _Are you asking me if I killed my husband?... How dare you! We have a family together!_ ”

 

Marco's foot bumped the corner of his duffle bag on the floor. He could almost hear time ticking from the analogue clock they didn't own as he waited for it to turn eight so he could head to Jean's house, to prepare for Armin's birthday.

 

All day his stomach hadn't been able to hold in anything more than milk for breakfast and an apple for lunch. Deep down in his belly, his guts were probably crying out for more nutrition that they could burn with acid. But they'd have to wait until the fluttering bugs feeding the maze of his intestines with thoughts of … his friend (and his lips) … decided to stop.

 

Last nights events were giving him a tick in his foot that refused to sit still, fueling his hope that he'd survive tonight without making a fool out of himself, but something else was nagging him as he sat there watching a cheesy move with his family. And that was that he hated how little time he'd been spending with them.

 

Without realizing it, he had spent most of his weekends with Jean – and also on days he went to work. Marco had never even done that with a _boyfriend_. He'd cut them all off after they'd sneer at him for spending too much time with his family. As if that were a bad thing. But now he was the one telling himself that he might need to cut back.

 

“ _I-I don't know, Margret, but something doesn't feel right around here._ ”

 

Maybe this was happening because Jean was just a friend, not someone who he saw as _having_ to spend time with out of obligation in order to keep a healthy relationship. If anything, Jean felt more like an oncoming addiction, the harmless kind like keeping your windows down or smoking pot once a month with your friends when you're in eighth grade.

 

He really didn't need to add another guilty pleasure onto his list... but like with his other habits, he really wouldn't mind having too much of Jean.

 

_Well do you want him or not? Geez, make up your mind._

 

Marco looked up at his mom and studied her face. She was really into the movie, eyes so focused they looked like they had dried from not blinking. Her hand was loosely holding onto her phone and he knew she would ring Reiner once it was over. She'd tell him what she thought about it and he'd give her his own in depth opinion. At first Marco had been slightly creeped out about their … whatever this was, but now he was used to it.

 

Feeling someone watching her, she side glanced him, “What's wrong?”

 

“Nothing, sorry. Just noticed how you kinda look like me.”

 

“I think you have it the other way around,” She smiled, wrinkles streaming from her eyes. She turned back to watch the movie but she didn't look as into it as before he disrupted her attention, “What time are you leaving?”

 

“I'm waiting until it's eight.”

 

“For what?”

 

“Marco doesn't want to look desperate,” They both turned to look at Micah, who looked about as excited as someone watching grass grow, shrug with half effort, “What? It's true.”

 

“What does he mean by that?”

 

_Uh-oh._

 

“I don't know.”

 

_Please tell me he didn't figure me out._

 

His mother patted his hand and put her attention back to the TV, “You shouldn't set a time to leave if you're already ready, Marco. Being with friends isn't the same as work. There is no schedule.”

 

Micah grunted, “That's what I'm sayin'. He's got some weird obsession with time, mom.”

 

“There's nothing wrong with wanting to plan things out beforehand...”

 

_Oh thank goodness, I'm still safe._

 

“It's ok if you leave right now, before it gets darker out.”

 

He felt his chest heavy with burden. Marco wanted to spend just a little more time with them so he wouldn't have to feel so bad about leaving. It was a bad way of thinking, and he felt guilty about it too, but he'd feel worse if he wasn't there for Armin's birthday after saying he would.

 

With a quick kiss to his mother's temple, he grabbed his bag and got up. He ruffled Micah's hair as a small payback for getting him paranoid over nothing and earning a smack to his thigh in return, “I guess I'll be leaving now since you guys are kicking me out.”

 

“Yeah, get out.”

 

“Have fun, _caro_.”

 

Their lack of concern made it easier for him to leave … it kind of hurt his feelings too, but this wasn't the first time they acted that way with him. Every time he would ask his mother for permission to hang out with Jean, she'd get a look of frustration on her face that he couldn't understand, and it was the same with Micah when he asked him about it.

 

He didn't have much time to dwell on it though, since by the time he was walking to his Tahoe and driving out, he was already in Jean's neighborhood. It took him two literal minutes to get from his house to Jean's. He wondered if maybe he should've walked … things in the group chat hadn't gone as organized as he'd hoped and not much was cleared on their means of transportation or designated drivers.

 

He didn't know why they needed designated drivers in the first place. He'd wanted to say they were too young to be drinking, but then he remembered how he smoked pot and kept his mouth shut. But still, one was way more harmful than the other and they didn't even _like_ drinking – it was just something they did because, well, he really didn't know why.

 

_Fico …_

 

Two Jetta's were parked on the driveway when he rounded the bend, regret meeting him on the curbside as he parked a few ways back from their mailbox. He'd completely forgotten to bring something over again, but he swears his mother taught him better. It's just that he wasn't used to being home when Jean's mom was also there. And that was something dangerous he'd gotten comfortable with.

 

With two ton weights on either shoe, Marco made his way up the house with the duffle bouncing against his legs. The pale and dying grass he had seen two days ago was now covered in a blanket of fallen leaves. It looked like someone had tried raking the top right of the lawn but had given up after making a ten foot trail.

 

_I bet I know who did that._

 

Music leaked from inside the house and into his ears before reaching the door, wiping the silly grin off his face as tension took over his muscles. Jean wasn't there to greet him this time, and after his first few knocks went unanswered – most likely due to the upbeat and bizarre melody jamming through the door – he leaned in for a harder pound.

 

The second his knuckles hit the aged red door, Ms. Kirschtein swung it open so fast he nearly stumbled forward. Marco's feet were slicker than his brain and glued him to the floor before having the chance of crashing into her bosom.

 

“Oh my!”

 

When he straightened up to greet her, she gave him a look of shock before settling into a warm smile. Her plump cheeks were rosy and there was sweat on her face that reminded him of pretty glazed donuts. Donuts. Food. He could smell something cooking from the kitchen and he was glad he hadn't had an appetite all day, because if Ms. Kirschtein was anything like his own mother, she'd make him eat.

 

“Marco!” She yelled over the noise coming from upstairs, “It's so good to see you!”

 

“Hello, Ms. Kirschtein, how are you--”

 

She pulled him in for a bear hug, trapping his arms against his sides and squeezing the air out of his lungs, “It's been too long, look at how much you've grown! Come in, come in, let me take that for you!”

 

He felt himself blow up back to normal when she let go, taking the bag from his hands and resting it atop of the first stair case, “Thank you for having me. I'm sorry if I came at a bad time.”

 

“No, no of course not. Jeanbo told me you'd be coming, but I didn't believe him,” She giggled, watching him take his shoes off, “Oh good boy, you're a very good house guest! But like I was saying, I didn't believe him because the only person who ever stops by anymore is Sasha. Do you still speak with her?”

 

“Yes ma'am, I do.”

 

_I don't think she remembers speaking to me at Red Lobster._

 

“Oh that's good, I'm happy to hear that,” She paused for a second, ignoring the music blaring around them like a flood, “Oh! Where are my manners? Are you hungry?”

 

“Ah, actually,” He wanted to say yes so desperately, but he felt all types of shy speaking to her and taking in her strong personality. Jean was just like her in that sense. And the good thing about parents like her was that they made the choice for you no matter what you wanted.

 

“Come on, let's eat!”

 

She lead him down the short hallway he had passed many times before, one that was filled with paintings Jean said she'd fallen in love with at Big Lots and flea markets. With his mom around, Marco felt like the randomness of all the decorations in the house made sense. Like it all fit together in some jumbled way.

 

“Sit, sit!” Ms. Kirschtein ordered, grabbing a plate from the cabinet, “The dining room is just through there.”

 

“Thank you,” He smiled, acting as if he didn't know. He had watched Jean dramatically throw away pumpkin guts in the trash can from that very same table while he'd supposedly been carving a face on his own not even twenty-four hours ago.

 

She continued speaking to him while she prepared his food, telling him having 'rare' visitors was always nice when there's only two people living together. Marco mostly listened, giving her polite responses that weren't too short or robotic to reveal his jitters.

 

But somewhere in between their casual conversation Marco had confirmed that the source of music belonged to Jean. It was coming from the upstairs bathroom where the shower he hadn't noticed finally stopped running. Now the white noise was being replaced by a broken voice, singing along with the unknown artist with piercing passion.

 

“Don't mind the whale upstairs,” Jean's mom said as she strolled in with steaming hot chicken gravy, a biscuit and seasoned vegetables. She sat it down along with a bent fork, “It's unfortunate he couldn't have inherited my good voice.”

 

Marco's stomach growled, bad mouthing him for not feeding it properly, “A-Are you going to eat, ma'am?”

 

“Hm? No, not me. The cook always has to suffer the curse of losing their appetite once everything is prepared,” She grinned, apple red cheeks squinting her brown eyes, “I'll have coffee for now, but Jeanbo will join you in a few minutes … Just go ahead and start eating, actually.”

 

He nodded, feeling that shyness creep up again, but not enough to stop him from piling a mountain of roasted potatoes onto his fork.

 

“What would you like to drink, Marco?” She asked, bouncing back to the kitchen, “We have peach, orange, and apple juice. There's water in the garage if you don't like it sweet.”

 

_How weird would she find it if I got up and pulled out the cup from the cabinet on the right side of the stove with the yellow swirls on it that's all the way in the back next to the coffee mug?... Unless it's not there because Jean used it, but he knows I like that cup... No I can't do that, she'll catch on to us. And it'd be rude... I'm sorry Ms. Kirschtein for being so phony!_

 

“I'd love to try the peach, I don't think I've had it before,” He said through clenched teeth, swallowing his potatoes down along with the last light of his innocence.

 

“Really? You're going to love it! It's not as bitter as orange juice or sugary like apple, it has a delicious middle, you'll see.”

 

Jean's music stopped playing, allowing Marco to hear Ms. Kirschtein pouring his juice, as well as an awful – yet endearing – screeching that Jean probably called singing, “ _I feel that mmhmm, I feel I'm coming down_... don't know that part, don't know that part … _you know that I don't fuck with the truth, fuh-fuh-fuck with the truth..._ ”

 

Jean's mom was walking towards Marco's newly stuffed face when they both froze as the bathroom door swung open. Her small eyes popped out wider after each thumping footstep running down the stairs.

 

“Jean, we have a guest!” She warned, “Make sure you're decent before coming down!”

 

There was a mocking chuckle hidden in the hallway, totally sure that there really wasn't anyone visiting their home because it was half an hour before Marco was supposed to be there, “Yeah right. Who'd you invite, the FedEx guy again? You know you scared him off last time. Didn't he say something about a restraining order?”

 

“There was no such thing,” She assured Marco, looking sheepish due to her sons lies.

 

“How much money do they even make?” Jean continued, still unseen, “You think he'd buy us a new television if you dated him?”

 

“Jean _Kirschtein_.”

 

“Ok, ok, sorry... What about a mini fridge?”

 

“You saw me try, right?” Ms. Kirschtein whispered to Marco, serious and worried.

 

He didn't understand why she was getting frantic until Jean popped into view.

 

“ _Oh mon Dieu_ ,” She sighed, face palming herself.

 

“Ooo, what smells good? What'd ya cook, ma?”

 

Jean, in his (almost) naked glory, was wearing nothing but pink boxers. His hair was twisted and damp like baby horns, matching the demonic personality everyone associated him with. And his skin dripped with beads of shower water that ran along the curves of his body.

 

He had a hand tucked into his underwear, scratching a little ways below his jutted hip and ogling around the kitchen before turning his attention to the dining room where he had a perfect view of Marco's chipmunk cheeks that were struggling to chew down the remaining food he'd shoved in his mouth.

 

“ … Hey,” Marco said as best he could without choking, “we-we're having chicken gravy and vegbles.”

 

“ _Marco_?!” Jean's face went red at an alarmingly fast rate, hands going straight to hide his pink and tiny nipples as the elastic in his boxers loudly snapped against his skin, “ _Shit_!”

 

_This... this is going to be a long night, isn't it?_

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

What is it about light that captures people's attention so easily? Man made or otherwise, we all go _ooo_ and _ahhh_ at its presence. Or maybe it isn't exactly the light, but the shadows instead. Show someone an open field with the sun taking over and the most you'd get is a shrug, but if you take them to the forest where the light peaks through open spaces between the leaves, creating rays and exposing the dust floating in the air, they go quiet with appreciation.

 

Light is beautiful. Shadows are beautiful. And you can't have one without the other. Even in darkness, its easy to love the way one contrasts against its partner.

 

Marco looked out the side of the passenger window to catch sight of the neon blaze that was hard to see due to the foggy glass. He could vaguely make out the sign illuminating the entry way, telling him in blurry letters that they were parked in Barracks. And even if they were far from the building, the vibrations could be heard from where they sat.

 

It was much stronger than the music that had blasted from Jean's bathroom, surprising him in such a wholesome way since he'd never experienced the type of atmosphere that came with losing oneself with a crowd of strangers.

 

He let out a shaky breath, still trying to reorganize the mess that had became his head after the initial embarrassment of having seen Jean naked had subsided. They'd eaten dinner without saying one word to each other when Jean had returned fully clothed, but Ms. Kirschtein had filled in the where they lacked.

 

She had teased her son, gossiped about work and asked Marco plenty of questions that made him thankful for her ability to speak without ever letting a breath of silence in between her words.

 

It wasn't until the two boys had gone to Jean's room when he _really_ let him have it, grilling Marco like an egg on the hood of a car that'd been left out during a scorching summer morning. Jean had asked why he hadn't texted if he were coming earlier, face turning deep shades of red from anger and humiliation.

 

All Marco could do was repeat the awful advice his mom and brother had told him, “I was ready quicker than I thought I'd be so I just... I just came.” Jean had stopped his raging then, putting a hand to his face and rubbing it with excessive force.

 

The blush on his cheeks had cooled down after a couple quiet minutes, but soon after, he started laughing like a maniac on the floor.

 

Marco had been afraid he'd broken Jean, but it didn't take long for him to join his friend. Without realizing it, they'd dissolved the strain between them and started talking normally around one another again. And by normally that meant Jean started bragging about what a nice body he had without all those 'show off' muscles Marco never used.

 

“Where the fuck are they?” Ymir groaned from behind.

 

They were seated, waiting for the rest of the group to get there before going in. Jean had insisted on taking his car rather than the Tahoe. Marco didn't understand why he wanted to drive since he wouldn't be able to later tonight, but he made no objections. He wasn't about to piss him off a second time tonight.

 

“Just a few more minutes, chill,” Jean snapped back, face stuck to his phone.

 

His skin shimmered in the glow of the screen, diamonds catching Marco's attention more fervent than he liked. But he couldn't help it, it really did resemble snow and it was all thanks to his mother. She had helped them with their make-up, much like the way Sasha had – except without being in danger of having saliva on their faces or getting called names other than, “So handsome!”

 

Ms. Kirschtein had praised him for the cost of such lovely costumes, she even made him write the store name down before they went off to pick up Ymir and Bertholdt from their apartments. Christa had driven on her own and was parked next to them in her white BMW, and they all found it odd that Ymir hadn't gotten off to keep her company. Nobody said anything about it, though.

 

Jean clicked his tongue, “Change of plans. Rei didn't pick up the rest. Only Sash, Connie and Annie.”

 

“What happened to the others?”

 

“Mikasa decided to babysit them,” Jean tuned off his phone and stuffed it against his hip and leggings, “They'll be getting here later with the birthday boy and Eren. But Reiner said he was already here so let's go meet up with 'em.”

 

“He's not gonna recognize us, we're dressed up like idiots. Seriously, who decided to force everyone to put on a costume?” Ymir whined as she jumped out the car.

 

“It's the club's dress code for tonight,” Bertholdt said, the others following after her, “You look great as a prince... that's your costume, right?”

 

“Yeah and what are you supposed to be? A garden?”

 

“Mother Nature.”

 

The forty degree temperature created goosebumps along Marco's bare arms as he left the comfort of the car. He'd been told by a few of them that bringing anything other than his phone would eventually become a burden, so all he had was emergency money and his ID stuffed inside his phone case. No sweater to shelter him from the wind.

 

He shivered as he tapped onto Christa's window, motioning for her to come join them when in reality he wanted to jump in and drive someplace safe and warm.

 

Marco smiled as she got out the car, forgetting his troubles if only for a moment, “You're a knight! I thought you'd be a princess again?"

 

She looked down and gave him an unsure quirk of a brow, “Is it ok? Does it look weird on me? I thought it might be a bit too different.”

 

“No, not at all. It's a good different! I'd be happy if I got rescued by you, but unfortunately it seems like we might be enemies.”

 

Distracting her from her worry, he turned around to show her his tail, earning a giggle from her when he wiggled his butt, “Oh no, you're a dragon! But who says dragons and knights can't be friends? I think we can make it work.”

 

“I think so too, but I might have to fight Ymir. I don't think she'd understand our relationship.”

 

“Yeah. She's really... she's really hardheaded, isn't she?”

 

“Oh _fuck_. Holy shit, is that Reiner? What the hell is that idiot wearing?”

 

The two looked at one another – worried – and quickly shuffled to the middle of the road where the others were already huddled, squinting with disgust at someone. There was a guy in a Strong Man costume shivering with his beefy hands wrapped around his equally beefy arms. His tight black overalls exposed over half of his muscular chest and thighs, leaving very little to the imagination. Unfortunately.

 

“H-H-Hey!!” Reiner screamed, waving as the rest of his pick up popped out from the car a few feet down.

 

Annie – dressed in a short black wig, white collard shirt and black slacks – was keeping her distance from Reiner. She appeared just as unhappy about wearing a costume as Ymir, but these girls were really pulling them off (even if he had no idea who Annie was supposed to be). Behind her was Connie and Sasha, hand in hand as Star Fire and Robin with grins so wide it looked like it hurt.

 

Marco grew a grin of his own seeing them that way. He was happy Connie had confided in him days ago about what had happened between the two during the drama party, voice soaked in euphoria as he admitted that he really was weak for the girl, but not giving any cares to that when he had someone willing to be brave for the both of them.

 

“Why? Just why?” Ymir shook her head at Reiner, all he had was unwavering pride as he danced his way to her.

 

“Because exhibit eh-eh-A: I look good. T-Two: it gives me an excuse to wear this in public, and thuh-three. I look _good_.”

 

“Look at you, you can't even talk right,” Annie pointed out.

 

Ymir gagged, “Well, I know at least _one_ of us appreciates your D cups.”

 

“It doesn't look that bad,” Bertholdt fell right into her trap.

 

“Exhibit A - no wait, _eh-eh-A_.”

 

“Aw, leave Bertty alone,” Sasha cooed, placing a hand on Bert's shoulder, “We all know he's got the worst eye sight. He doesn't know how bad Reiner looks.”

 

“You all know h-how to make a man question his self worth... you a-assholes.”

 

While Marco had been distracted with the size of Reiner's calves, he felt something tickling his hand. He looked down to see Jean poking his finger against his, making him jump when his nail grazed a trail along the meat of his palm.

 

“What's up?” He whispered as the others continued talking.

 

“We have the best costumes here – well, not counting Thing One and Two because they have the money to buy expensive ones. But yeah, ours are the best. Have you noticed?”

 

“Mhmm,” He agreed without really having meant to, “It's thanks to your mom and Sasha.”

 

“What? No it's not, it's our faces.”

 

“Well, to be fair, your mom gave you half your face.”

 

“That's not the point. The point is, we won.”

 

“Oh, is there a competition for best costume?”

 

“...No, but I'm just saying we won anyways.”

 

“You're competitive even when there's no competition,” Marco gave him a playful push, inspecting the yellow field of glitter covering his body. He felt he looked exaggerated, “I think you're pulling it off better than me.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You're probably right.”

 

“Marco! Jean! We're on the move-out!” Connie called with the rest walking ahead.

 

They'd decided to start the party without the other three, because apparently, Eren had wanted to cut a little cake for Armin at his house before coming – even though his real birthday wasn't until two more days. Nobody protested. Instead they hurried towards the building that looked a lot like a tricked out barn, promising to shelter them from the cold.

 

As they trotted, Marco noticed how they'd split off into smaller groups – Connie and Sasha to the far right, Annie and Krista in the middle, Bertholdt, Reiner and Ymir to the left and the dragons on everyone's tails. Marco felt relieved he and Jean had become so close, if not, he would've felt like an eleventh wheel even with his group of friends.

 

“Oh my gosh, Reggie, you didn't even drink that much! What the hell, man?”

 

They passed a boy hurling by the woods, a girl dressed as a bumble-bee was soothing his ladybug back but she wasn't looking so well herself. There were other people lingering outside the club, they were nothing but black silhouettes smoking and avoiding the spot near the vomiting boy.

 

The booming from within grew louder and louder as their steps got closer, and once they reached the entrance, Marco could feel the vibrations in his chest.

 

“Do it like how we planned in the group chat,” Annie ordered, making eye contact with all of them and staring extra hard at Bertholdt.

 

The bouncer – busy with a dozen other impatient teens wanting to go in – only checked three of their ID's. He fumbled with the stack of crumbled up bills they handed him as their entrance fees, not even counting all of it while the under-aged sneaked through. His red rimmed eyes noticed. They noticed _him_ noticing. But the buzz-cut shaved man was wasted and didn't feel the need to stop them.

 

“Too easy!” Connie shouted, barely audible against the music.

 

The unventilated heat inside the club hit them like a brick wall, heavy and almost tangible with mustiness, but it cooked their freezing limbs in no time. And much like the windows in the car, the hazardous mirrors covering every square inch of the walls were so fogged up they dripped with condensation.

 

Marco turned his head up to the roof where the lights were bouncing off the glass, sighing with amazement at the view. It was as if he were back at the sky full of stars Jean had taken him to, except here they were colored with hot pink, lime, aqua, magenta and more that blinked too fast for him. Some were lasers beams, others rolled from one corner of the club to the other, and the rest remained lit without doing a thing.

 

His head snapped back down when he got a whiff of a familiar aroma. He hadn't brought his own weed, not when he was in charge of getting his friends home safely, and he hoped the spoke in the air didn't affect him or the other drivers. But nonetheless, it welcomed him to calmness in such a rowdy and contradicting place, and as he tried to find the source of its many different impossible directions, a hand grabbed onto his.

 

“What're you doing? Don't get lost!” Jean shouted, pulling him deep into the ocean of sweat.

 

Marco saw the chain of hand holding they'd created, somehow in his daze and investigation he had become last in line. He squeezed Jean's hand to let him know he wouldn't get lost, and Jean squeezed back, head facing forward with his grip never loosening.

 

After several elbow and shoulder bumps from twisting strangers, Marco could pretty much guess how Baby must've felt when she carried that watermelon into the employee's room. All of the pirates, kittens, vampires, bunnies and superheroes he passed by looked like they were _doing the do_ rather than dancing. He had to switch his sight up to the roof again by how intimidated it made him feel.

 

_You're going to be doing that with you-know-who._

 

“Traitor, don't you dare,” Marco hissed at his brain.

 

They didn't stop roaming until they made it all the way to the back of the club where the speakers were blasting a mere inches away from their table, making the sensation in Marco's chest tingle twice as hard. The mirrored wall behind them vibrated along with the bass, he was afraid it might shatter into a million pieces if they weren't careful pushing their chairs back.

 

“This is the only way we'd have a spot to sit!!” Sasha explained without getting verbal responses. They simply nodded because they didn't want to compete with the volume bursting in their eardrums. All they could do now was soldier up and throw their belongings on top of the stained table.

 

Reiner immediately took Bertholdt by the arm after setting down his phone, taking him back to the crowd and leaving with a peace sign.

 

Jean, still holding onto Marco's hand, gave him another squeeze. Marco didn't want to look at him because he knew what his face would be suggesting... but he didn't have the power to ignore him either.

 

“Let's go,” Jean mouthed, eyes full of anticipation. He shimmied his shoulders just in case Marco didn't get the memo... and just how could he say no to that anyway?

 

Marco nodded, swallowing hard as he allowed himself to be lead where the other two had disappeared.

 

_It'll be alright. It's not so bad now that we're further away from the speakers. I'll take that as a good sign._

 

He scanned around to get a sense where everything was, but quickly gave up with Jean's sharp turns.

 

It was weird, seeing boys with boys and girls with girls and sandwiched bodies of everything in between. Their town wasn't nearly as prejudiced as other small ones, but the queer community still mostly kept private when it came to public displays of affection. Here, though, they were letting loose like caged birds finding long awaited freedom.

 

Jean came to a stop.

 

He'd found them a spot near a questionable square, wooden pole with doodles and obscenities written all over it, “I think we're good here!” He yelled, he looked ready. Unlike...

 

Marco could admit he was good at controlling his feet and body, but when his mind was as conflicted as it was – mostly in part by the way Jean was now gazing up at him – he might as well have tied his legs together and floundered like a fish on the dance floor. He wanted to be a bird, he had the wings, he just needed the courage.

 

_Why do you have to look at me like that? Why do you have to look so …._

 

The glimmer on Jean's skin fluttered every time light ran across his face. His eyes decorated in white and golden eyeshadow were burning into Marco's that made no intentions of letting go. And there was a devious smile forming on his tinted lips, making Marco's stomach do flips and cartwheels and somersaults. Everything about him looked so beautiful – from the top of his frosted hair to the bottom of his tight-fitting leggings. It wasn't fair.

 

The ice dragon released the grasp on Marco's sweaty hand, taking a couple steps back without ever freeing his locked gaze. It was as if he were telling Marco, _“Watch me, watch only me.”_ And he did.

 

Jean started off slowly, off beat with the current song playing for them but still confident as his hips began to sway. Everyone else around them were moving so fast it felt like Marco had purposefully put Jean on slow motion for his own immoral enjoyment, but even if he felt dirty about it, he didn't do much to stop.

 

Jean took a step to the side, rolling his body counterclockwise to his own rhythm as his left foot remained the center point of his circling. When his backside was facing Marco, dipping and then riding back up all over again, he slid a hand down the small of his back to grab onto his tail to swing it around.

 

It took all of Marco's will power to not allow his fluster to show. His heart wouldn't stop racing as he thought about how this dance was _just for him_ and no one else. But as selfish as he was feeling, this was almost too much for his virgin soul. Oh, but he wasn't alone on that sentiment.

 

The confidence in Jean's actions weren't reaching his face anymore as he came full circle. His eyes had dropped down to the floor and his hands were holding onto the tail hard enough for Marco to notice. He knew Jean well enough to realize it was time to rescue him, even if it meant throwing himself into the pit of the frightening unknown.

 

Marco extended his arm out for his friend, pulling him in close when Jean questionably – but gladly – took his hand. “Tell me what to do,” Marco voiced in his ear, sounding huskier than he would've liked to admit.

 

He felt Jean hesitate before wrapping his arms around his yellow collard neck, extending his upper body to say, “J-Just move the way I did, we'll start off slower if you want.”

 

“I-I, what do you—is that even poss--”

 

Jean had started dancing on him without giving any signs that they were about to begin before Marco had finished speaking. If you'd call it that.

 

Their chests were pressed against one another with their lower bodies shy of doing the same, but Jean granted him mercy and didn't move any closer. They just swayed back and fourth, back and fourth, lazily and unaware of the stares some people were sending their way.

 

It took Marco a minute to realize they were waltz dancing, the kind two weary and tipsy strangers did at the end of a wedding when the ballroom was almost empty and their shoes were thrown off to the side.

 

“You're too stiff,” Jean professionally judged, “Your arms shouldn't be glued to your sides, Marco.”

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

“It's fine, just,” Cool breath hit his neck as he spoke, “just relax, nobody's watching us. It's just you and me here. ”

 

Relaxing was damn near impossible, but Marco didn't want to ruin the night with his nerves. He put his hands on Jean, feeling the bones of his hips behind his thumbs and getting the urge to rub them to calm his anxiousness, “Like this?”

 

_Do you want him or not?_

 

“I mean, yeah, but don't look so scared. I'm not going to kill you if you touch me. Or are you – are you uncomfortable or something?” Jean leaned back an inch, “We can stop i-if it doesn't feel right.”

 

Dang it. He'd done it this time. Marco felt a pang of guilt as he studied the concern troubling Jean's features. Sweat had already formed onto the bridge of his narrow, flaring nose and pinkness was kissing the hard line of his lips as Marco tried indulging in the eye contact Jean was avoiding.

 

He wiped his nose with a finger, happy that had caught his attention as he pulled him in closer. He hoped he wouldn't regret tucking his leg into the others, because all it did was remind Marco that he had no idea what he was doing but was going to do it anyways, “No, I'm not uncomfortable or something. I'm just not used to all the... all the touching.”

 

_Do you want him or not?_

 

“Wanna quickly get used to it?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Let's get you used to it,” Jean's face instantly brightened up, giving no instructions to Marco's awaiting body. Instead he remained watching and daring him to make the first move.

 

Marco looked around to see what the other dancing couples were doing. He saw one making out without moving anything but their mouths and decided not to use them as a reference. Quickly searching for another, he spotted the most innocent one he felt he'd be okay with.

 

He deeply inhaled before taking on Jean's challenge, ghosting untrained hands up his sides until they were holding onto his shoulders. Jean allowed himself to be turned around, he even let Marco caress his way down his arms until they cupped his equally sweaty fingers.

 

“Is this alright with you?” Marco asked. His hips were leading Jean's in unhurried motions as they became familiar with the new song he could barely focus on.

 

A slight quiver came off of the other boy before he gave a single nod. It sucked not being able to read Jean's face in this position, but holding him like this – with their bodies nestled into one another – Marco couldn't find much else to complain about.

 

Jean intertwined their fingers together, positioning Marco's larger hands back to his hips as he gave a particularly larger body roll. And with how thin the material of their costumes were made out of, Marco could feel the tail on Jean's modest behind rubbing against his groin.

 

He held in a strained sigh, following the way the other was grinding against him. The smell of Jean's sweat mingling with his cologne, the sight of his flushed nape glistening in the neon lights, and the delicate way he was holding onto Marco was enough to let him feel the song his heart was singing:

 

_I want him, I want him, I want him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, i've been thinking about participating in bottombodtweek, and if I do, this next chapter might come out later than this one did. I've actually worked a bit on it already - which was why this came out not on schedule. It'll be short chapters though, so it shouldn't take me like 2 months to update TOL.
> 
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> I might change my mind though so don't trust me yet. We'll figure it out later.
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> ps. I wanted to thank you guys for all the kudos and comments, it never fails to brighten up my day and motivate me when i've got writer's block! And I also wanted to thank the silent readers too! I see you in the Hits ;o u don't go unnoticed by us writers trust me
> 
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> pps! The club part isn't over yet. Most of what I have planned for it takes place in Jean's perspective bc of reasons !


	19. Coruscating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are, and will always be, things you can't help. Those _things_ could be anything: the way you look, the chemicals in your brain, how you feel about someone, your attention span. Your hate. Your love. But they're all you and you're only human. You are flawless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being patient, I really wished I could've stayed on my schedual

Stamina – although heavily categorized with kids and teenagers – depended on the person. Jean liked to believe he had plenty of it since, after all, he was an ex soccer player and ran every Saturday morning to keep his figure. But after five songs with Marco, he got a cramp along the side of his stomach that felt more like someone was shanking him.

 

His body had wanted to stop. But on the other hand, his desire wasn't letting him have it. Somewhere along the way, he and Marco's dancing got awkward because of the type of music playing. Its lyrics implied messages that'd made Jean feel guilty for reasons he'd rather not dwell on. But even if they were no longer pressed back to front, he enjoyed having the simplicity of Marco's hand to hold as they danced face to face with respectable distance in between.

 

Because it was a very nice hand. Very nice to hold.

 

Jean was having a difficult time coming up with reasons as to why someone like Marco would be so dedicated to a sport as brutal as the one he was enrolled in. His hands, large and rough, were touching him so carefully – like if he were a feather he'd luckily found on the sidewalk and was keeping it in his palm so it wouldn't wrinkle in his pocket – he just couldn't imagine these very same hands throwing someone over that broad shoulder of his with brute force.

 

He intertwined their fingers together, to see the contrast of his slim, unscarred hand against Marco's worn out one. The waves of his experienced joints slid against his and it satisfied him when he locked them together. A perfect fit.

 

_Heh. This is no big deal. I could do this all day, everyday. I don't know why I was so scared of him before._

 

Marco's dancing slowed before the boys stopped entirely moving. When Jean looked up to see his reaction, he was puzzled like he knew he'd be. His head cocked to the side with his eyebrows furrowing, but there was a smile on Marco's face that said he didn't want an explanation. The smile was to let Jean know he thought he was being weird and that he didn't care if he was doing weird things to him.

 

The song changed as they stared. It was their first shared eye contact after avoiding one another for two straight songs. The melody stopped being a techno remix about being young and morphed into an inappropriate one having to do with bedroom activities. It was a lot more explicate than they would've liked, and again, they had to look away.

 

Jean thought for the third time tonight how one embarrassing thing after the other had kept happening ever since Marco saw him naked. But to be fair, that was probably Karma coming back to him for the time he poked Marco's nipple. He'd almost expected the other boy to say his nipples reminded him of strawberry milk with too much milk and not enough fake, pink strawberry sugar.

 

Whatever. It happened already. Embarrassment done and gone now. Jean's mind moved on to more important things as he watched a couple laughing and smiling at one another. One of them was singing the XXX song to his partner with a face that should've rather been singing a song from the _Titanic_ soundtrack. They looked happy, and when he turned to sneak a peek at Marco, his face fell. The boy looked afraid and deep in thought.

 

_Shit. He's not having fun. I'm ruining his first time._

 

He began to grow impatient with their comfortable dancing. Not to be confused with _boring_ , because that wasn't it. Not in the slightest. As a matter of fact, he wouldn't mind doing it like this all night since he'd almost had a heart attack showing off to Marco the way he did when they first entered the dance floor. But after his cringing, and after his friend held him, he realized the torture was worth it. Even if it did feel humiliating initiating it.

 

_Oh, fuck it._

 

Without thinking twice about it, Jean stepped in for the metaphorical kill. He caught sight of Marco's large, golden diamonds decorating his face and smelled his vanilla perfume before drawing closer. Marco was confused again – maybe even a little shocked – of what he was doing now. But his body had understood before his brain did as Jean got rid of any unnecessary space between them.

 

Marco held onto him, arms tucking underneath his armpits while Jean latched his entire body to the other like a leech. The heat radiating out of Marco's costume felt different from the stuffy heat permeating the air. It oddly put him at ease, giving him the will to start grinding against his friend's leg. And there, it was another perfect fit.

 

Surprised by his bold movements, Marco stiffened. And not in the way Jean was kinda hoping for. In those few unsure seconds, his confidence plummeted just like that. _Whomp_ -whomp. Gone.

 

But Jean understood where his hesitation was coming from. He himself had never danced this way with anyone before, and it sure as hell was nerve wrecking and sweat inducing and self doubting. But then, like earlier, Marco handed him his ego back, arms holding on tightly as he began to move with him.

 

It was still a little rigid, but that was perfect for Jean to move as dramatically as he wanted. Their differences might've been too noticeable, but they were doing it. They were really _dirty dancing_ together.

 

“You're doing good, I don't think you ever really needed help,” Jean didn't shout since they were so close, he couldn't tell if his voice was shaky. He hoped it wasn't.

 

“Tell me if-if it's too much.”

 

One of Marco's arms slid lower down his back, “I should be the one saying that to _you_. I want you to enjoy yourself, so if I make you feel … uh, bad or something—“

 

“No, don't worry,” His breath hitched, “I want to try this.”

 

Jean leaned back to get a look at his face, just in case he was pretending to be OK with it. But he couldn't stare too long, he was feeling unnaturally timid in the state they were in. Which was normal! This was normal, too! There are lots of close friends who danced this way with each other. And sometimes, much like how Jean was feeling, they had to concentrate on not getting a certain body reaction from it.

 

Marco gripped at his shirt when the friction in between their legs met. Jean didn't know if he was doing it unintentionally—which was probably the case—but either way, he was loving it. He tried a more intense gyrate and Marco answered with a stronger tug. 

 

_Interesting ..._

 

Jean closed his eyes and hiked a leg up against Marco's thigh. Almost automatically, the other caught it and kept it close to his side as they steadily swayed. A stronger pump of his hips created a stronger grip to his leg and back, when he took it calmly he could barely feel Marco trying to hold him. Jean took it up a notch when he felt ignored, grabbing a handful of Marco's hair as they danced.

 

That was the secret push Marco needed as he loosened up his body. The frightened reluctance that'd been holding him back disintegrated as he met Jean with almost the same frantic and unmasked desire. They were like the ocean and its waves, rhythmically falling into one another without meaning. Only because it was natural.

 

Marco's hand – still careful, still delicate – found its way near his leggings. Whenever Jean's hips rolled, it'd accidentally tuck underneath the elastic fabric. Even under his boxers.

 

_Shit_

 

He felt his back hit the dirty wooden pole and decided to lean against it for help on his growing weak legs. But this way, they had a great view of each others faces, and he didn't know if it was an incredibly bad or horribly good thing. When Marco bit the bottom of his chunky lip, Jean knew which one it was.

 

With selfish hands, he ran them down Marco's head, down his yellow-collared neck, and slowly landing them against the muscles of his broad chest. Jean looked up at the ceiling and felt everything – the tickle of breath hitting his face, the pumping of Marco's hold, the music drumming along with his heartbeat, the delight growing inside of him. It all felt so present, but not real.

 

The scenery turned distant, almost numbed out completely like if they'd been transported underwater. The music became muffled and deep, and he imagined everyone moving slowly like the way people did when they suddenly dived into a pool. He felt an odd peace wash over his erratic nerves.

 

But it only remained that way for two more minutes. It all came crashing down with the smallest of whimpers coming out of Marco's lips. Then it all sped up too quickly for him to control. With the teasing in his crotch by Marco's solid thigh, heat on his own leg where the other was nestled into and dark eyes watching him, Jean turned beat red as he felt himself harden.

 

“Jean,” Marco swallowed, “Jean, I think we should s—“

 

“They're here.”

 

“What?”

 

Oh, thank goodness! Jean had never felt so happy seeing the horrible haircut Armin insisted on keeping bobbing through the crowd. He was wearing a tiara and something pink like a shirt or dress, he couldn't really tell. But he knew that was the birthday boy because Mikasa and Eren were right in front of him with Sasha and a few others leading them to the table.

 

The boys stopped moving, but they didn't separate. Jean nudged Marco, who'd found them in the crowd too, saying, “We should-we should go say hi probably.”

 

He nodded, but said nothing as they started back. They didn't hold hands this time, Jean didn't think he could handle any more skin on skin contact. Not with the issue happening down his lower half, he needed his hands to cover that up.

 

When they got to their spot at the back of the club, almost everyone was already there with the exception of Krista and Reiner. The rest were cautiously immobile around Eren, and when Jean saw why, he wasn't surprised.

 

He was _raging_ , chest puffing, eyes distant and impossibly mad, lips curled around his teeth – and whatever Mikasa was saying in his ear wasn't helping in the slightest. Trying to calm Eren down was like trying to put out wildfire with a water gun.

 

“What happened?” Marco asked.

 

Beside them, Armin looked tired already even though they'd just arrived. Sasha noticed his mood and scurried over to them to play messenger.

 

“Some asshole in the parking lot almost crashed into them when he tried taking their spot. He got so mad he drove behind them when Eren tried backing up to fix his position,” She rolled her eyes and huffed, “Mikasa said he cursed them out for like five whole minutes before leaving. The whole time they tried keeping Eren in the car so he wouldn't do something stupid. You know how he is.”

 

_Typical hot head. At least control your anger by yourself._

 

They looked back at Eren, but he was now looking straight ahead with his nostrils flaring. They all followed his gaze and spotted a boy staring back at him with – what Jean guessed were his friends – doing the same. It wasn't hard to figure out who the Asshole was. He was smirking at them with triumph written all over his face.

 

One of his friends pushed him, laughing in their direction before they all disappeared back into the crowd.

 

“That's right, leave!” Sasha yelled after them. She turned to Connie with a grim expression, “I can't believe they followed us. You don't think they'll try anything, do you?”

 

“I hope not. We've got Rei and Marco if shit hits the fan, so I think we're fine either way. Right Marco?” Connie's hand went up for a fist bump.

 

Jean watched as he returned it less enthusiastically.

 

“No problems,” Armin reminded – mostly screamed – to Eren. He was standing in front of him with his hands on the others shoulders, “I know you'll keep your promise like you said you would. So please, let it go!”

 

Jean took the shorty's advice and tapped Marco's arm, “Hey, I'll be right back! I'm going to the restroom!”

 

He left as Ymir started complaining about the new bouncers at the door. He didn't wait for Marco to give him a response, he didn't really want to give him the option of tagging along with what he was about to go shamelessly do.

 

On his pilgrimage, people stumbled and collided with him. Some giggled and apologized while others ignored him completely. He noticed how most revealed lots of skin, lots of cleavage and … lots of funny facial expressions. He hoped he hadn't looked like that to Marco. Marco. Thinking of him wasn't going to help the situation hiding underneath his shirt.

 

But Jean didn't feel bad about that realization, because really, that was common (to him). Friends, and humans in general, got boners all the time when they danced! Especially with the way they'd dared to do it – no matter how short they might've lasted. It was totally safe for him to get turned on because of him and be filled with images of the way he'd bitten down on his lips, or cried in his ear, or … or tried touching his butt.

 

_No! That's just wishful thinking._

 

Near the hallway of the restrooms, the line flooding outside of the girls bathroom was seeping along the mirrored walls while the men's barely had a trickle. Actually, there was no line at all.

 

Jean sauntered gratefully to the door as the women eyed him with resentment. He had almost told them to just come in and use it but when he entered, he saw _why_ the place was so abandoned.

 

Inside, it smelled like a glorious mixture of shit, vomit and aged urine. The floors were shiny and covered with toilet paper – some smeared with questionable substances and others balled up and sticking to the wet floor. There were even a few used condoms laying around with semen leaking out of it.

 

He looked up at the moths dancing around the fluorescent lights. Two were burned out, the other four were twinkling with as much power as it could spew. The mirrors were foggy with dirty hand prints, the walls stained with years of never having seen bleach and worst of all – there were no paper towels _or_ hand air driers.

 

Jean tip-toed into the cleanest stall he could find, which he'd still consider dirtier than the inside of Reiner's crack, and leaned against the closed door. He sighed with relief at the privacy, taking in a deep breath and then regretting it instantly because of the fermenting smell around him.

 

_How am I supposed to …_

 

He placed a hand on his stomach and argued with himself if he should really try shaking one out of his system before going back out there. If he didn't, he'd have to remain in fear of having his body acting – literally – up because of Marco. And if he _did_ do it, he'd have no choice but to do it in a place like this. What if he got sick from taking in the polluted air longer than ten minutes?

 

Yes. That was the _real_ question here. Not if what he was thinking of doing could be morally right or wrong. He'd already decided on that without breaking a sweat. His feelings were safe, he wasn't going to masturbate _to_ Marco. He was going to masturbate _because_ of him. And those were two entirely different things in his book.

 

Jean fingered the elastic of his pants with one hand as he brought the other up to shield his face from the smells. He didn't want to close his eyes, he was too afraid the flickering above him would die out without him knowing. So with his eyes wide, he faced the writings on the wall behind the toilet .

 

_'Ur all pussy's'_ , He read, heading further south, _'Joan and Maggie were here!', 'I want to go home', 'FUCK JOANA, YOU FISH BITCH IT REALLY IS 3 INCHES', 'You haven't lived until you plowed a cow'._

“Shit, what is wrong with people?” Jean cursed, his hand had barely touched moist skin before he snatched it back out. Needless to say, he was having a hard time getting in the right mood. 

He shut his eyes, monsters be damned, and tried again. This way he was able to incorporate images of the magazines he used to have when he was younger, but by the time he started palming himself against his leggings, he realized he'd gone soft already. 

“It's a sign,” Jean gave up, “It's a fucking sign. But why? It's not like I'm doing anything bad. It's the exact opposite! I'm doing this for a friend!” 

As he turned to unlock the stall, someone from outside entered. He could hear the stranger's dragging footsteps and waited for them to pee in the urinals or go into their own stall, but they didn't do either one. He heard them walk to the back of the bathroom and then nothing. 

Jean stood still for one minute, then two, then five before receiving some sort of noise from the other. The man gave out a dry hack, proving that he was a human and not some demon trying to punish him for being a liar. Jean flushed the empty toilet and took in a deep and sour breath before getting out, telling himself it never would have worked out anyways. 

Purposely avoiding the direction of the cough, he whistled over to the sink to wash his hands. He'd deal with the wet discomfort after he was out of there. Right now, his instincts were telling him to it hurry up. 

From the corner of his eye, he could make out the dark figure of a stout man. He was hanging out next to the brown stained urinals, hands in pockets and hoodie coming down to reveal a buzz-cut head. 

“Hey, you were with that kid.” 

Slowly, but not afraid, Jean turned to look at the guy who he guessed to be the Asshole. It wasn't, but rather than him, it was the guy that'd been laughing at them when he pushed his Asshole friend away. He looked older than a high schooler, but younger than someone in their late twenties. His hair and face glistened with sweat, it came to no surprise since he _was_ in a sweater and baggy jeans. 

Jean scowled at the grin the man sent him, it was yellow and playful and amused. Not at all the way he was feeling right now. But he didn't want to start any problems for Armin and kept quiet as he turned the faucet off. 

“You here with your girl? No. Forgot it's gay night tonight,” He laughed with a slap to the knee, “You here with your boy, then?” 

“That's none of your business,” Jean spat, already walking away. He hadn't meant to respond. 

“Don't be like that,” The man continued, “Lots of people are getting lucky tonight. Most don't even know it. You wanna be one? I saw your little problem earlier. Thought I might catch you in here to do a little business.” 

“What?” He froze, staring at the door. 

_Were they … were they still_ watching _us?_

“Free samples are free since we're new. It only takes a little, don't need too much or they'll get sick and you won't be able to do anything. Or maybe you still can, I dunno. Ah, but you're with the yellow guy, right? He's pretty big. You might need to use the whole thing.” 

“Yellow ...“ Jean's stomach chilled when the words registered. This guy, this piece of living shit that made the bathroom look like a rich house's powder room, was talking about hurting _Marco_. 

He spat on the floor with rage flushing to his face. As he turned around with malice consuming his vision, the grin on the man's vile lips pulled Jean into a full fledged sprint. He grabbed the stranger by the collar, slamming him against the wall and making his head bounce. He knew these type of people existed, but it made his skin craw to know just how _normal_ they talked about drugging someone! 

“If you don't get rid of that shit right now,” Jean growled inches from his greasy face, “I'm going to get rid of _you_.” 

Dull eyes red with veins reaching for its iris stared blankly at him. His reaction came slow. Only seconds after Jean's assault did he really begin to fidget and complain, “Hey now, what's the problem?” He laughed, this time with no humor, “I was only kidding. Look, search me. You've already got me like this, search me. I don't have shit, get off!” 

But Jean didn't. He gripped the sweater tightly around his clenched hands, shoving the man forwards, then back, forwards, then back against the wall like if he were dribbling a basketball. He looked like a rag doll in his hands with the way his limp body moved with every bang. 

When he thought he got his point across, Jean watched him plummet to the floor as he let him go. He knelt down beside him and forced the sweater off. The other didn't put up a fight. 

“Watch,” The man groaned, head slumped as Jean stuffed it in the toilet, “Just because you don't want it, doesn't mean he won't take it.” 

“Go to sleep, asshole.” 

He left fuming, the problem he had had coming in there gone and forgotten like if it'd never even been there in the first place. Jean forced his way into the mass with trembling hands and labored breathing, not caring about the insults they were throwing his way or the pointed glares. He needed to cool down. He needed to warn Marco and the others. 

But when he got back to the table, Krista was the only one there. She was on her phone, unhappy about whatever she was reading on there until she noticed Jean moving within her earshot. 

“Jean?” She jumped, “What's wrong?” 

He shook his head to let her know he didn't want to talk about it. If he did, he was afraid he'd run back to stuff _him_ inside the toilet, “Where's Marco?” 

“He went to go get a drink a while ago. He should've been back by now, but I think he's just being held up by traffic.” 

“I'm gonna go look for him.” 

“Everything alright?” 

“Yeah, sure, it will be when I find him.” 

She raised a blonde brow, “Oh?” 

“Don't fucking talk to strangers!” Jean shouted as he skipped away, “I'm serious!” 

The pull into the crowd took him by the arm, swallowing him whole as he began treading for the bar. It was located in the exact opposite direction from where their table was at. He had to go through who knows how many hundreds of people before he could even _think_ about searching for Marco. There was no point in shooting him a text, either. All of their cellphones were left in their cars or at the table. 

He was beginning to feel like he wasn't even at a club anymore, it felt more like the bottom of the ocean with the way he kept getting pushed along with schools of other teenagers sticking together so they wouldn't get lost. He bet they were salty tasting, too. Including himself since he had to touch them in order to navigate across. They most certainly smelled. 

But he didn't care, he needed to hunt for a man overboard and hopefully the uneasiness ballooning in Jean's stomach was for nothing. Hopefully Marco really was waiting for the crowd to diffuse so he wouldn't accidentally step on anyone's feet or bump them with his meaty arms. 

That was more than what could be said for Jean. The fight to reach the bar had taken him seven long and painful minutes. He'd almost snapped when a Tiger purposefully tripped him for throwing their friend off to the side, but when he'd made it to his destination, the incident had been pushed to the back of his head. Now he was preoccupied about how heavily populated with adults and with thirteen-year-old looking kids it was. 

While he looked around, he was smashed against a chair by a swarm of running witches. 

Jean glared at the owner of the seat when the guy shifted to see who'd given him a knee to the side. He was wearing a mask, but Jean could easily see fear taking over their familiar face. Before he could try asking who he was, though, the short boy hopped off and trembled into the darkness without looking back. 

“Watch it!” Jean snapped. Someone had stepped on his heel. 

Now that there was an empty seat, Jean pounced on it and sat on his knees, leaning his elbows on the neon counter top as he searched for anything yellow or tall with tattoos. There was a woman in a _Kill Bill_ outfit sitting alone a few meters down from him, a banana chatting up a vampire while she waited for her drinks, and a yellow _Power Ranger_ taking shots with their gang. But there was no sunshine in sight. 

Jean breathed, got down, and circled the area once—twice and then again just in case Marco just _barely_ finished getting his water. But instead of him, he found Reiner and Bertholdt making their way out of the bar zone empty handed and long-faced. 

“Hey!” Jean yelled, crossing and shoving bodies to swim to them, “Hey, have you seen Marco?!” 

They were too far to hear him. 

“Marco!” He repeated, some drunken moron behind him shouted Paula instead of Polo, “Where-Where is he?” 

He watched as the water dispersed down the middle with Reiner's gallant stride coming his way. Jean guessed no one wanted to brush up against all _that_ either, “What happened?” He shouted, concerned. 

“I'm looking for Marco! Have you seen him?” 

“Whoa, chill out, I thought someone got hurt,” He looked at Bertholdt, “I haven't seen him, have you?” 

“No, sorry Jean. But we just saw Con and Sasha head that way if you want to ask them.” 

“Thanks,” Jean said, looking at the point of his finger, “Oh, and keep an eye out for people in sweaters. I know it sounds weird, but just stay away from them, alight?” 

And then he was off again. 

He trudged along the mirrored walls this time where there weren't as many people. His search for missing friends had gone up to two – who would probably be harder to find since they were hiding their faces in their superhero costumes. This couldn't get any worse. 

One minute, he was thinking Marco could handle himself if he happened to run across trouble, but the next he was thinking how he wasn't the kind to deal with physical confrontations. Example one to support this fact would be the rude old man at Red Lobster that he'd had to punch for his friend's sake. Honestly, what was the point of training how to fight if you weren't going to use those skills in real life? 

_What if he really is lost? Or maybe he just went to the bathroom after getting his drink? … Shit! What if that guy is still in there waiting for me, but then finds him? And what if he tries offering him drugs? Different kinds? Marco wouldn't … What if someone asked to dance with him before he even got to the bar? He's too nice to say no._

“Argh! Stop being lame!” Jean barked at himself, pushing a couple away as he continued. 

He ignored the reflection following him, it was trying to show him just how atrocious his scowl appeared. But he couldn't help feeling flustered. Not after knowing the _friends_ Eren had made stalked them and not when he didn't know where Marco was or how he'd been vaguely threatened by a drug dealer. 

He had promised himself he would watch over Marco tonight just in case something happened, and lo and behold, his instincts had been telling him for over fifteen minutes now that something _had_ happened. And not just to him, but to Marco as well. 

_I'm probably just over reacting._

After not finding anyone along the left wall, he neared the corner that lead to the back where there were tables similar to theirs on the other side. Not wanting to go near the people there and trip on anymore chairs, he had no choice but to go back into the dance floor. He was sure that in the morning when he woke up – with Marco absolutely below him on the other bed – his entire body would be filled with bruises. 

“Jean!” 

“Marco?!” Jean's ears perked up like a dog as he searched for the drowned voice and found … Sasha. 

“Jeaaaan! What's up!” She was bouncing his way with drinks in her hand. Her mask sat crooked on her face, and her hair looked worse than when they'd first arrived. Connie was no where to be seen. 

“Have you seen Marco?” 

She winked, “Oh you bet I saw him! You bet I saw him and _you_ dancing like old people. It was horrible, you're both too shy!” 

“I don't care! Just tell me if you've seen him!” 

“No, no, you need to hear this,” She sipped one of the glasses, “Anyway, he can handle it, trust me! Try grabbing his butt, nibble on his ear or something. Or let _him_ do it. He'll probably like that better since you have a big as—“ 

Jean took one of her cups and took a long, much needed swig. He watched as her face crumbled when he handed it back half empty, “Let me rephrase that,” His face puckered from the alcohol bitter in his mouth, “Yeesh, what is this? Never mind. Have you seen Marco _after_ we danced? After I left to the bathroom where did he go?” 

“Why should I tell you? Look at what you did!” 

“Ugh! You're fucking rich, you can always get another! But there's only one Marco so tell me if you've seen him!” 

“He's by some stupid pole!” She cried, watching him leave, “And I hope he found someone better who doesn't steal drinks, you jerk!” 

“Yes! Thank you, and don't fucking talk to strangers, you hear?!” 

Not long after leaving her, he was stopped by a guy in a karate costume. He tried asking Jean for a dance, if he was single, if he came with someone, and if he was really gay, but the prickling in Jean's stomach had manifested itself to absurd paranoia. It didn't allow any room for fake martial artists when he was so close to finding the real one. 

Jean told him to fuck off and ran away. 

Twenty-two minutes. He'd spent twenty-two minutes of holding in his breath and being worried for, thankfully, no reason. 

Jean found Marco near their wooden pole. It was easy to spot him from meters away since he was much taller than the people around him. He could even see the half-downed water bottle in his hand that'd been filled with orange juice rather than plain water. 

Maybe he really had taken a long time at the bar and Jean got too flustered too quickly before he went on his man hunt. He hated to admit it, but he also didn't have 'the best' eye sight around, and when he really need them to work his vision only got worse. Bonus points when it was dark. 

Whatever had happened in his head, it hadn't happened in real life. Marco was OK and undisturbed by anyone – potential suitors or gangsters. He was dancing alone and enjoying himself along with the music with more comfort than Jean had seen him displaying earlier. Whatever shyness he'd had was way long gone. 

Marco was smiling, flashing a glimmer of his teeth as he ran a free hand through his slick hair. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet and waving his arms around like if he were trying to pump up the crowd, but then he switched it up and started rolling his wide shoulder back and _tried_ doing the Moon Walk. 

_What. A. Dork._

But despite himself, Jean couldn't take his eyes off of him. Somehow while he'd been going against the current, Marco had melted into the sea and had become a living part of it. 

He took smaller steps forward, taking his time to reach his friend so he could stare without any interruptions. He watched the way Marco's skin glowed under the dim lights, the vest hugging his torso had ridden and exposed his smooth hip bones and V-line. 

Jean watched his arm muscles flexing with the wings forever etched onto him contracting along, it was like they really wanted to make him fly. He ogled and admired the glitter dust coruscating on his temples, along his cheeks and square jaw. He was beautiful. 

Jean felt blooming in his chest from how much he really liked Marco. Usually, he'd be heavily distracted at school by tiredness and hunger and anxiety that he could only pretend he didn't steal glances at the boy, because after all, everything is coincidental when you're attracted to someone. But here he could stare all he wanted. 

But now he wanted to touch again. 

And as if the other had sensed this, Marco found him hidden a few feet away. His smile turned into a visible giggle before mouthing a, “ _Come here_ ”. 

Jean smiled back and skipped towards him. Finally, finally, finally he could feel relieved and at ease. 

“I was worried!” Marco admitted when he was close enough, trapping Jean in a bear hug, “I went looking for you in the bathroom when you didn't come back but you weren't there!” 

“You – _ngh_ – what?” He was brought back down with a pat on his head, “Did you see anyone weird in there?” 

Marco looked up at the ceiling, thinking, “Ahm, no, no I don't think so. But there was someone using the toilet. I could smell it. I thought it was you, but when I saw his feet I knew it wasn't.” 

“You thought it was _me_? I wouldn't do that here! That's so gross, man!” 

Marco laughed and closed him in another hug. Now that Jean was noticing – thanks to the cockroach shit he'd disciplined in the restroom and due to the how close they were – he really was a big guy. 

“Can we dance now?” Marco sighed, still holding onto him, “I waited a long time for you.” 

“S-sure, yeah. But you, uh, you don't want to try it with someone else first?” 

“Uh-uh.” 

“Ok, that's ok.” 

“Yeah? Are _you_ OK, Jean?” 

“Why wouldn't I be? Of course I am. I'm good. I'm super f- _ine_.” 

Marco placed their legs back to that dreadfully feel-good position. And rather than building up momentum from their rubbing like before, he went in with doubtless passion and so on beat to the quick rhythm of the music that Jean had to clutch onto his vest so his legs wouldn't buckle. He was reminded that this was the cause of his troubles, the reason why he'd had to hide in the bathroom and beat up a guy. 

But screw it. Jean didn't know when he'd ever be able to be held this way by someone he liked. Marco was perfect, he wasn't in danger, and there were no scary men waiting for them at the end of the tunnel with bats and guns and knives. 

Jean felt Marco's hands roaming on his back. The one carrying the drink chilled his skin through his shirt, but the other curled warmly along his shoulder blade, pulling him tighter against his body. He was beginning to wonder what could've happened that made Marco so bold in under thirty minutes. He doubted a pep talk from Sasha or Connie was the cause. 

_Something feels …_

“Is this—“ Jean hid himself in the crook of his neck, “—is this too much for you? Or is it really OK?” 

He felt Marco's head shake, letting cool breath fall along his ear before saying, “'S perfect.” 

Jean could've argued with him about that. He really could've. But Marco's deep voice had sent a shiver down his spine. He didn't think about if the other would've felt it, too. Not until he tilted back and studied him. Marco's dark eyes bore into his with an endearing grin stretching across his boyish face. 

“What?” Jean frowned, face heating up. 

Marco's hips danced into his, “You. Mm, nothing. Nothing.” 

He came back in to lean his head as best he could with Jean's, humming a quiet melody that was sluggish and too calm to be the one controlling their limbs. It sounded like the kind old people sang to one another to remind themselves of the times when they were young. 

Jean felt a hand run down his back, dipping inside of his pants again. This time, though, it wasn't on accident. Only his fingertips were in, but Marco clawed at his waist with the nubs of his skin rather than nail. He forced Jean to stop. 

“Like this,” Marco placed his confused hands on his neck and took a step back, “Better for you, right?” 

He picked up where his humming had stopped, holding Jean as best he could with the icy water bottle in one hand. There was nothing Jean could do except watch in bewilderment as his friend placed their foreheads together. His eyes were closed, his shoulders relaxed and voice confident as they waltzed once again in the hectic storm around them. 

Jean had a million questions waiting to leap out from the tip of his tongue, but the inside of his mouth had gone dry like cotton. He held onto Marco with his frame softening from the outside _and_ in because of the understanding the two shared without needing words. 

“Thanks,” Jean whispered, watching his dark lashes flutter open. 

The song in Marco's throat kept rumbling as they gazed at one another. They were a mess of blurred vision from being so close, but Jean could see the darkness of his freckles better this way. He could smell the vanilla and sweat, feel his wavy hair itch against his head and taste the distance of their lips. 

_Not yesterday and not today._

This time it was Jean's turn to close his eyes. And as much as he wanted to stretch it, kissing your best friend wasn't something that happened enough times to be considered normal. Last night during his midnight visit had been the sign that his crush was changing into something different. Something that terrified him. 

“Jean,” Marco staggered to the side, his hands tightened around him so he wouldn't fall over. 

“Whoa, hey, are you alright?” 

He nodded but kept his head low and hidden, “'M just a little dizzy.” 

“Is it too hot? Do you want to go outside?” 

“No. Juice.” 

_Why does he keeping talking like that? He can't be … No, he couldn't be drunk. He wouldn't drink, he said he didn't like it._

He watched Marco open his orange bottled water and sip. With every bob of his Adam's apple, the thorny sensation that something wasn't right grew tenaciously around them. They'd been apart long enough for _anything_ to happen, and Jean felt self-hatred in his throat for not sticking near their table instead of walking around the entire building like a fucking idiot. 

He snatched the bottle away from Marco's hands as soon as he was finished. 

“Oh, were you thirsty, too? I don't really think you'll like it.” 

Jean's stomach dropped when the faint stench of alcohol burned his nostrils, “What the fuck is this?” 

“I think it's called a Saint Clementine.” 

“You mean Saint Clement?” 

“Yes! That's the name.” 

“Marco, Saint Clement's are supposed to be alcohol free,” Jean tipped the bottle and took a small swallow, revealing that what was in Marco's system was indeed more than orange juice and lemon. And more than half was missing already, “Who the fuck gave this to you? Did you order this shit with alcohol?” 

“No! No, I'm the desg-designated driver, remember? I'm not drinking. He said it didn't have any.” 

“He? Who the _fuck_ is he?” 

“It was—um. I don't remember.” 

“Try to remember! Was it a man in a sweater? Was his head shaved?” 

Marco looked about ready to cry, “M-Maybe. I really don't know, Jean. But he was selling them cheaper than—cheaper than the bar guy. Eight dollars for … for plain water's too much. He said two for orange juice. I thought it was OK, he was walking and giving them to lots of people.” 

“So you never went to the bar? No fucking wonder I didn't see you,” Jean rubbed his face, taking a few stickers with him, “Fuck! And you drank so much of it already!” 

He looked around the area as if he could catch the guy who'd given it Marco. But there was no way that was possible, it was too dark and there were too many people moving around to even stare at a single person for too long. Not only that, but he didn't even know how he looked like. Rage poisoned his mood as he brought his attention back to the glassiness of Marco's eyes. 

“We're going back to the table!” He yelled, motioning for him to go. 

But the other didn't budge, “No, you're mad at me.” 

“What? No I'm not!” 

“Then why're you looking at me like that?” 

“Because I'm fucking pissed off!” 

He gasped, “I knew it!” 

“You know nothing, I'm not mad at _you_ , I'm mad at whoever the fucked lied to you. _How-the-fuck-ever_ , I am confused as to how the hell you didn't taste the alcohol in here!” Jean shook the bottle in his hand for emphasis. 

“I thought it was the lemon that was makin' it taste that way! I don't drink, Jean, I didn't know. Lemon and orange juice is really nasty together. I didn't—“ He hiccuped, “—know!” 

“Ok, ok! I get it. Just, please, can we go back to the table?” 

“Fine.” 

“Thank you.” 

He was upset – Jean could probably be able to notice it from a mile away, but now wasn't the time to work that out. He had other things in mind that he wanted to deal with first. Like if beating someone near death was _really_ that big of a deal nowadays and if he could get rid of witnesses as well. 

“But 'm leading the way!” 

Marco grabbed him by the wrist and started directing them to their spot. His hold was still careful even though he was clearly bothered, Jean almost didn't have the heart to take the lead when he started walking in a crooked line opposite of where they were heading. Almost. He had to take over if they wanted to make it there by tonight. 

He wiggled his wrist free and took Marco by the hand. The boy could be stubborn and pouty all he wanted, but he could do it on the way to the right place. 

What had happened to the drunk baby crier, anyway? Did he need more alcohol in order to get that way? This new persona reminded Jean of the stubbornness Marco displayed every once in a while, proving to him that two completely different people could have so much in common. 

_Where the fuck was that stubbornness when he was heading towards the bar? Dammit Marco, you're supposed to be the smart one! You know you shouldn't accept weird drinks from strangers, no matter how cheap they're offering it. I just don't fucking get it._

When they reached their table, Krista had been replaced by Armin and Eren. A king and his sailor. The two were comfortably speaking to one another the best they could with the speakers so annoyingly close, they hadn't noticed the other two until Jean stubbed his foot against a chair due to the way Marco had almost toppled onto him. 

“Fuck!” 

“Ho there!” Eren had reacted first and ran to them, peeling Marco off of the other as he guided him next to Armin in an empty chair. 

“Dizzy!” Marco explained, fanning himself with a lazy hand. 

Jean turned around and started searching with his eyes for anyone wearing a sweater or anyone who looked like they were offering even a piece of gum to someone else. But he only got glimpses of hands and arms stained with lights. He couldn't even tell what was a hoodie and what was a villain costume. 

“What happened?” Eren asked, coming beside him, “Marco's trashed and you look like you're about to pop, dude.” 

“Someone gave him alcohol. And I don't … I don't fucking know if they slipped something else in his drink.” 

“What? Are you serious?” 

“Why would I joke about something like that?!” 

“I don't know? Because your sense of humor sucks?” 

Jean could feel a vein ready to burst open as he glowered at him, “I'm not joking, _alright_? Someone tricked him into buying spiked orange juice and it's all my fault. I was supposed to watch over him since it's his first time here, but of course something like this had to happen! And-And I don't even know where to start looking for the asshole who did it.” 

“Uh, Jean?” 

“I know! I know, I'll try not to do anything when I find him because of Armin, but a talk. I just want,” He clenched his hands, “a nice little talk.” 

“No, man, _look_.” 

Jean twirled to the direction Eren's eyes were set on, finding a trio of guys walking right across from them. They sauntered their way to their own small table, which was now coincidentally free of the group of girls that'd been there just after he and the rest had arrived over an hour earlier. And they were all watching. 

One of them had a buzz-cut, he was sweaterless and laughing as he said something to the redhead that'd cursed Armin and the other two out earlier. There was a new guy with them with dark long hair and sallow cheeks, armed in a thick coat. There were four older looking men sitting on the wooden chairs with dozens of beer bottles littering their table top – so much that they probably couldn't even place a pinky on it. 

And unlike the younger three's mocking smiles and squinting eyes, these men were looking at them with stoned faces, history of violence as clear as day on their withered faces. 

“It was them.” 

“Are you sure?” 

He looked back at Marco. He was busy hiding from the men glaring at them, and when his eyes met Jean's, they went big with plead, “Yeah. Damn sure.” 

Poor Armin couldn't have stopped either boy from flying off, since, by the time they were sprinting through the thin amount of people blocking their way, the thought of telling them to calm down had barely popped into his confused but knowing head. All he could do was keep Marco by his side while the need for childish actions took over his friends body's. 

Jean saw everything in slow motion at first. The panic of frightened people getting pushed away, the way the men's faces changed from unbothered to surprised to realization and then finally to readiness in a single heartbeat. 

He watched them struggle to get up from their seats, one of them dropped a sweater that'd been hanging off the back of a chair. Another tipped the table as he stood and dropped bottles without them thankfully breaking. It'd be harder to fight that way. 

But with a single note from Marco's loud and wobbly voice from behind, time pressed itself into fast-forward. 

“STOP!” 

Jean ducked at Buzz-Cut's fist, shoving his head hard into the others stomach with no where else to put it. But the man quickly grabbed him by the back of the shirt and took him down with him. They hit the sticky floors with a thud, holding hatred and pride as their motivation to keep them from feeling any pain. 

When Jean climbed on top of him, the man tried throwing him off. When Jean landed a blow to his chest, the man kicked his feet wildly from below and used his hands as shield against the shower of jabs. He smelled like toilet water. 

“What'd you give him?” Jean shouted, striking him on the head, “Hey, I'm fucking talking to you!” 

“Nothing! It was only vodka, I swear!” He caught one of Jean's fists midair, but it exposed half of his face to be left plummeted with a punch to his cheek, “We wouldn't waste product on _him_! It's a waste of money!” 

A pair of thick hands pulled Jean up before he was able to make this guy's mouth into pulp. Thinking it was one of the drug dealers, he tried elbowing his face and striking his shins with the heels of his shoes. 

“It's me! It's me!” Reiner yelled, flinging him off to the side as one of the older men sprung up behind Jean. 

He was about to help him, and explain what was going on, but then a sharp sting danced at the back of his knee that sent him hobbling forward to face the culprit. It was the long, black haired guy. He sent Jean a wicked smile before hooking his knuckles right into his gut where uncontrolled rage had settled in. Jean doubled over, only to get slammed on his back where he'd been caressed not even ten minutes ago. 

The floors welcomed him back as a woman's shriek cut through the thick air of musk and music. And there was another voice – one belonging to Eren who was lost somewhere behind him – warning Armin to look out. 

Jean couldn't see what was happening up on the surface. He was helplessly trying to protect himself from the ongoing kicks of the stranger, but he could hear the screams multiplying – now it was both women and men. He watched as their feet scattered away from the direction of his table, face turning pale even in the heat of fury as a million reflections of the night club fell on to the floor with him. 

The leg ran away with the crowd, but not before piercing the tip of their boot to that same spot on his thigh. Jean hurried to his feet with his heart threatening to break his rib cage, not bothering to make sure he was clear of danger. 

“Armin! Marco!” He yelled, getting bumped back by a fairy. 

He found them on the floor, still in shock with glass surrounding them. The mirror that'd been in the back of their area was shattered, a single beer bottle sat just as broken with the mirror. Bits of it were thrown on top of the table and some in the chairs where the two boys had been sitting. 

Eren had made it to them first, and was pulling them up like if he didn't have blood dripping down his busted lip or red nail marks along his arms. With shaking hands, Jean helped him lead the boys where they couldn't accidentally cut themselves or slip. They were doing all this as the panic in the club spread like a virus. 

He didn't think of the cuts along his friend's knuckles and fingers. He couldn't. 

“Wait, stop!” Eren ordered. 

Jean's mind raced as more bottles flew. He could hear the mirrors breaking from the front, from the right, from _everywhere_ – even over the poppy and lighthearted music. His eyes were wild with horror, trying to find the culprits who were causing everyone to scream and run, but now drunken people had joined in on the fight and he knew it was impossible to pinpoint any single person. 

_What the fuck did I do? What the fuck did I do? What the fucking fuck did I—_

“We need to get out of here!” Eren yelled at him, “I can't find Rei, can you see him?” 

Jean only saw different spots of colors coming from the ceiling, shooting and zapping everyone even if they were running. Nothing more, nothing less. 

“Dude, snap out of it! We have to find the rest!” 

The music suddenly stopped, followed by the stillness of the blinking, flashing and roaming lights. For a second, the entire world held its breath in silence as they waited for the unknown, but then the screaming amplified and echoed around the barn, sending chills down Jean's bones. 

He jumped as a booming voice in the distance went over everyone else's hysteria. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but they all knew things were about to get much, much worse. 

The four of them tensed up when they heard banging against the entrance door. Were they being locked _in_? 

“What's happening?” Armin cried. 

No one could answer him. Not when the shouting disappeared, and not when the coughing took over. They heard it coming from where the banging had started, but now they were watching in stunned and helpless alarm as it spread throughout the closed building. 

People started bolting towards the bathrooms, to any corners they could find that hadn't been too badly broken, behind the weak bar and to the back of the club where they were still currently located. With the way most had tears in their eyes and snot gushing down their mouths, Jean realized they were being maced. 

He created a barrier with his cold corpse to keep the wave of people from rushing into Marco. And as he stared at the scene unfolding right before them, Jean felt his breathing pick up the most when he spotted the masked security guard coming their way. 

“Eren,” He notified. 

“I know. I see him.” 

Marco had been standing quietly the entire time, but now he was grabbing Jean by the shoulders and spinning him around. His lids were low, glassy and far away, but he held on tight and even managed to give Jean a heartfelt smile. 

“Jean,” He slurred, the alcohol wasn't finished with him yet and Marco wasn't trying to fight it, “'S ok.” 

“No, no, _fuck_ , it really isn't!” 

“Really it is ok. Trust me.” 

He stared at his friend for any signs that he might be right, that this was just a hallucination and they weren't really about to get sprayed with _mace_. But of course that wasn't true. 

The pain came quickly and unapologetically. Jean's eyes started tearing with the scorching of the pepper spray. It was worse than any shampoo, worse than any onion, worse than any eyelash or any of those combined. He tried holding in his breath, but it only worked for a few seconds. The stinging crept into his throat like fire when he couldn't take it anymore. 

Marco's hands released him as he started choking on his own. The sound of it – of his suffering – tore away any resentment Jean had left for the men. They didn't matter anymore, he just wanted Marco to be ok and far from here, but it was too late for him to regret his actions. His heavy and guilty heart knew that better than anyone else. 

With drool seeping out of his desperate mouth, Jean took off his shirt and stuffed it against Marco's face. It wasn't much of a mask or barrier against the air, but he'd be damned if he didn't try to successfully protect Marco for once. 

_\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -_

After two hours of being detained inside the hazardous club – when the room had turned eerily quiet – the security guards had finally decided to let everyone go. 

The police had been waiting outside for everyone, asking questions to handfuls of worn out victims before allowing anyone to get in their cars and drive away. That task alone had taken over an hour. But there had been an upside to that delayment, and that was that the men who'd gone around selling the date-rape drug had been caught, along with other groups with other kinds of narcotics. 

People had gone home bawling when it was over. Some parents had even been called by their traumatized kids to pick them up, but others hadn't been scared enough to go down that lane. They knew what would await them once they were away from the police and in the privacy of the long car ride home. 

As for the twelve kids, two of them had been hanging out in the parking lot in their locked car with music playing when the chaos had started. Mikasa and Annie never noticed something had been wrong until one of them saw that the bass vibrating against the windows had stopped. By the time they'd noticed, though, there hadn't been anything they could do. 

They'd ran to the doors, getting yelled at by body guards to move unless they wanted to be trampled. When the doors had been opened, they waited until they spotted their friends among the crowd – covered in tears and dry mucus. 

But it'd been great that the two strongest members of their group had been outside, because unlike them, the girls had had the strength to get infuriated by their treatment and to speak like wronged parents enough for the rest to feel at ease. 

They'd disputed with the bouncers and with the owner of the club, who'd been smoking a cigarette next to an officer, _demanding_ to know why they'd taken such extreme measures without coming up with a better strategy. What if someone with asthma had died in there? Or what if someone was allergic to the substances it was made out of? 

The most they'd gotten out of the adults was a scoff, they'd said they hadn't even sprayed _that_ much pepper spray for it to cause anyone to die. One man in particular had told them to stop being so dramatic as he dangled a gas mask in his hand. 

While that had started them in a different argument, Jean had taken Marco off to the side near the woods to vomit. He'd had a flash of the lady bug and bumble bee that'd done the exact same thing so many hours ago, wondering if the scum behind the police cars had anything to do with that as well. But he had no anger left inside of him to mull over them. 

He'd remained shirtless, but the cold never touched his skin. His mind had been preoccupied with all its senses to agonize over the well being of his friend. He'd asked Armin to get at look at Marco, knowing fully well that just because he was smart didn't mean he knew the tell-tell signs of someone being roofied. 

But Armin did it anyway to calm him down, telling him that Marco's eyes weren't dilated after a quick look at his face – which was usually the cause when people were high on certain drugs. But Jean wanted more reassurance. 

He'd offered to take Marco to the hospital, just to make sure, but he had protested over and over again that it really had just been alcohol. Jean didn't know how he could be so sure and so damn stubborn of all times when it really mattered, but he dropped the subject when a hint of irritation sparked on the others face. 

At five in the morning, after Mikasa and Annie's final threats, they were finally able to hop in whichever car they pleased and drive to Sasha's house. It was a silent and weary trip from start to finish. 

“We here?” 

“Yeah, we here.” 

Jean watched as Reiner and Bertholdt tiredly unbuckled their seat belts. Their clothes were a tattered mess, but he didn't have the face to ask what had happened during the time Reiner had disappeared. They'd all met up after the sniffling and wailing had died down. It'd still been too hard to speak, so nobody had talked until they were freed. 

“Night,” Bertholdt yawned, opening the door and needing assistance. He was drunk. 

“Night Bertty,” Marco croaked in the passenger seat. 

Reiner tapped Jean's shoulder before getting out to lend a hand to his friend on the other side, he'd lost his voice after all that hawking. The most anyone else got was a sore throat. 

He watched them go and join the other late Halloween characters getting out of the two separate cars. Jean could almost hear them cursing at whoever had made them all leave their sweaters and jackets behind, it would've come in handy right then and during the time they were struggling to breathe. 

From the safety of his windows, Jean lingered on the street as Sasha mumbled something to the quivering zombies behind her. They all waved her off in annoyance as she tip-toed up the stairs to her front door. With a flick at the knob, his friends huddled through and just like that they were gone. 

“Marco,” Jean made his voice small, “Do you want to go with them? I know we agreed on staying at my house, but since you're not feeling well, and since we're already here … “ 

“No,” He shook his head with his hair flopping at the sides, “I'm going to sleep on the top bunk, 'member?” 

“Ah. Right. But I still think it'd be safer if—“ 

“No.” 

He sighed and put the car on drive, “And if I say I won't let you sleep on top?” 

“The bottom's not so bad, either,” He paused as the engine coughed away from the house, “I just want to, I just want to sleep over with you, Jean.” 

The slur in his words kept him from feeling anything. He rolled the windows down for Marco and his questionably settled belly instead of responding and turned the radio on at a reasonable volume. The silence, after all that horrible yelling, would've been preferred, but sometimes the nothingness of words can leave things up for interpretation. 

He heard Marco trying to sing along to the current song as he drove slowly, staying under the speed limit in the dark and empty streets. His voice was hoarse and for some ungodly reason after what they'd just been through, happy. 

_What on Earth are you made out of, Marco Bott?_

It made Jean think about what he'd mumbled to him before the pepper spray got them. _It's ok_ , he'd said. The boy knew Jean was going to feel guilty about the situation – which really was his fault one way or another – and even in his drunken state, Marco _knew_. He'd even tried comforting him! That was more than what Jean felt he deserved. 

“Mm, la la, mm,” Marco extended an arm out the window, humming a tune of his own after giving up on singing lyrics. Jean took a quick glance at him as his eyes began to close. Then scrunch. He thought Marco was about to cry when his button nose started wiggling and his eyebrows wrinkled upwards, but then he said something that finally got Jean feeling the chill in the air. 

“Jean,” His voice cracked, “I feel sick again.” 

“No! I mean, no, look we're almost home. Just five more minutes, you're fine.” 

“Nooo, I'm really not.” 

Jean put more pressure on the gas, “Just focus on the wind. Keep your eyes closed and breathe – yeah. Just like that, you're doing goo— _no_! Don't shake your head that way! Do you want to dance or throw up, pick one!” 

“ _You_ pick one.” Marco demanded, pointing a limp finger at him and then poking it on his cheek. 

“I pick we keep the car clean!" 

Jean zoomed down the black roads as Marco popped his head out the window like a dog. He didn't think doing that was a good idea since he could catch the flue again, but arguing with this guy didn't seem like much of an option. Going ten miles over the speed limit, however … 

They ran through yellow lights and chucked through green. The reds caught them twice, but only for a few seconds. And luckily, there were no other signs of life as they continued on their timed journey through pot holes and tar. 

When they finally entered the neighborhood with screeching tires, Jean heard a faint gag coming from beside him. He took a risk swerving like a maniac to his house and didn't bother parking in the driveway, instead he settled behind Marco's car and hit the brakes. 

Jean flung his seat belt off before the lovely mess in the passenger seat could even register where they were at now. He kicked his door open, but then gently closed it so he wouldn't wake mother. And with impressive speed, he was by Marco's side in record time. He'd been so quick he even had time to lead him to the leaf infested yard where no one would be able to see partially digested food. 

“Oh, here we go,” Marco moaned as he blew chunks. 

Jean looked away to give him privacy, but he didn't leave. He soothed his back and concentrated on keeping his own weak stomach from joining in on all the … fun noises. 

“Geez, what'd you have for dinner? … Oh wait. You ate at my house,” He heard Marco trying to laugh in the middle of a gag, “That's right. We had chicken and – what was it? _Vegbles_?” 

Marco hurled again, spat, and kept his hands on his knees for a couple of minutes before cautiously straightening up. He'd removed most of the contents in his stomach when they were at the club's wooded area. And like then, there was sweat along his forehead and fresh tears in his eyes for the strain he'd just endured. 

He wiped his mouth and gave Jean an apologetic smile that was responded with an understanding one. And as the wind bit at their noses, they were reminded that they were outside with not enough clothing. Especially Jean since Marco still had his stained shirt tucked in his pants. 

“Let's go,” Jean said, taking him by the hand as they climbed the hill. The pumpkins welcomed them as they gathered by the door, “Try not to make too much noise if you can help it.” 

“Yessir.” 

Inside, the house was toasty and so familiar it knocked Jean down to a tiredness he took comfort in. He slipped off his flats and waited until Marco did the same with his. They successfully went up the stairs hand-in-hand without tripping, falling or banging against the wall in the dark. 

_If he was sober, this wouldn't have gone as well._

Jean's mom let out a monstrous snore when they started threading down the hall, causing them to abruptly halt. His ears stayed peeled for any signs that she'd awoken, but then Marco anxiously tugged at his tail with his free hand, almost making him yelp in surprise. Jean slapped his hand away and concentrated. When they no longer heard her, they scrammed to the safety of his room. 

“Shower,” Marco mumbled as the lights went on, burning their retinas. 

“Yeah,” Jean agreed, moving towards his closet, “I think I need one, too. We really stink.” 

“I don't think I'm ready for us to shower together yet.” 

“Wha—that's not what I meant, you know that's not what I meant! I don't think my shower's big enough for the both of us … and what'd you mean _yet_?” 

“Ha-ha, got you,” Marco laughed, giving him that limp finger-point again, “Your reactions are the best.” 

Jean's shoulders slumped, defeated. He was so glad, and at the same time so disappointed, that Marco wasn't going to remember any of this when he woke up. This teasing and cheeky side of him might actually be harder to deal with than the crier, but his head and heart both agreed that they didn't mind it one bit at all. He _shouldn't_ mind it. 

“Now, don't take this the wrong way,” Jean started as he took out towels from his closet and handed one to Marco, “but I'm going to help you use the shower, alright? It's kinda hard to use if you don't know what you're doing.” 

He watched Marco drag his duffle bag on the floor as he headed for the door, “'S no problem. I know I can figure it out.” 

“No, listen, you could make a mistake and either boil or turn into a freck-sicle in there. I'll show you in, like, two seconds and then _poof_ , I'll be gone.” 

“Poof!” Marco mimicked, opening the door, “I'm gone.” 

Jean watched with amused tenderness as he waddle outside, and for a moment he thought about chasing after him. But he knew the boy was smart and trusted him even in the state he was in. In the meantime, he had other things to take care of before Marco got back. 

He searched for the pajamas that'd been kicked under his bed, folding them on top of his shower necessities. He prepared their beds, pulling back the covers and removing any trash or make-up they'd left on the bottom bunk. He even went as far as letting Marco have the extra blanket since he wasn't about to _actually_ let him take the top bunk. 

After that, Jean swiftly went out, passing by the running shower as he headed downstairs. He kept the lights off just in case his mom decided to wake up for a five AM snack and hurried into the freezing garage. The cement chilled his bare feet as he retrieved two water bottles from the case that rested atop of an ice cooler. It felt as if they'd been left in the fridge rather than outside. It was that cold. 

He carefully shut the door behind him and set the bottles on the kitchen counter. He climbed another, setting his knees on the fake marble top as he searched in the darkness for the familiar shape of the Aspirin container his mother kept there along with other medicines. This would come in handy later when Marco felt worse by being better. 

When he was back in the room with his items, Jean threw them on his desk and sighed. He hadn't realize he'd been holding in his breath this whole time, but as it came out, he felt so exhausted. His feet hurt, his eyeballs were dry, his teeth were icky and he really did smell. But he couldn't rest yet, there were stickers on his face that needed to come off. 

Jean grabbed the face mirror he'd 'borrowed' from Krista ages ago that he'd 'forgotten' to give back off the floor. His face reflected exactly how he was feeling – like a single parent with a hundred children living in a big ass shoe. Except there was only one kid he was in charge in. And he was making his way back in now. 

Marco looked more aware of his surroundings as he went further inside. The top of his hair was pushed back, revealing the few freckles that were painted on his forehead. It almost took Jean a minute to realize who this person was, but then he caught sight of the slippers on his feet and remembered. 

“How'd it go?” Jean asked, peeling a diamond away and taking some hairs with it. 

“Very pleasant.” 

“You sure? Your lips look kinda blue.” 

Marco dropped his bag and ignored his comment, “I can sleep? On top?” 

“No. But you can turn in first.” 

He quit on the stickers and grabbed his belongings. With a sweet smile on his face, he patiently waited for Marco to begrudgingly get into bed before turning the lights off. Maybe some other night, when he was absolutely sure his friend wouldn't puke (or steal some stars from his ceiling to add to his unhealthy collection), he'd let him hang out up there for at least an hour. 

“Bye, Jean.” 

“I'll be back quick,” Jean reassured as he creeped out, “See ya in a bit.” 

“Mmyeah, come back.” 

_God, I wish I could record him._

At long last, Jean found true peace when he was in the bathroom. He peeled off his pants and underwear like if they weighed tons. The foggy mirrors hid the pained expression of his face as he looked down at his legs. Blotches of purple were already forming where one of the men had kicked him. Maybe he'd have to take some of that Aspirin, too. 

But that part of the night was over with. He was more excited about turning on the shower and jumping in. And as he did, most of the heavy stress and unbelievable commotion they'd gone through dripped out of his hard hair and swam down the drain. 

Never in his life had he felt aroused, pissed to the point where he saw murder, protective like a mother goose and scared shitless in the span of a few hours. But now that everyone was safe and at _some_ home, he allowed himself to be pleased. Ignoring the voice in his head that he shouldn't feel so relaxed was proving to be more difficult. 

_I'm not a piece of shit, I'm not a piece of … Shit_ , He became paralyzed with shampoo bubbling down his hands, _what if mom watches the news in the morning and sees that Barracks is on there? She's going to fucking question me like a detective on crack when she sees how it was left! And then twice as hard when she hears about the damn drug dealers!_

“Oh! Duh,” He smiled, continuing his routine, “she wakes up mid afternoon when we don't have weekend plans. Forgot she hates the news anyway … but I don't know about Marco's mom. I'll have to bring it up in the morning. Or whatever time we wake up.” 

When he was finished, he dried himself, dressed into his shorts and plain shirt, brushed his begging teeth and left refreshed. Coldness met him outside as he headed back to the room despite the heater being supposedly on. His nightly showers were going to have to change to afternoon ones for the remainder of winter since his mom couldn't really afford to turn up the heat anymore than it already was. 

Like a trained agent, he entered the pitch black room without making a sound, throwing his dirty clothes _somewhere_. But he didn't need light to know where everything was placed. 

Jean kicked a balled up paper away and felt the handles of Marco's duffle bag before reaching the wooden staircase. He couldn't hear him breathing like the way he could sometimes hear his mother snoring, but he guessed it was because Marco was knocked out by now. 

Jean hadn't, however, guessed it was because he was napping on _his_ bed with the slightest puffs of air coming out of his nose. Jean felt the leg first, then squawked. 

“Marco!” 

“Mm? What?” 

He crouched on the mattress, “What the hell do you think you're doing?” 

“Sleepin'.” 

“But that's my bed,” Jean looked at his stars, searching for any that could be noticeably missing. 

The bed squeaked as Marco turned, groaning deeply behind blanket, “I know but it's warmer up here. I can't sleep when it's too cold. Please don't kick me out, please.” 

Jean opened his mouth to protest, but then snapped it shut. He couldn't fight Marco on this one. Not when he'd gone through so much tonight, and definitely not when this was the least Jean could do to make up for being a shit chaperon without being an asshole about it. 

He grunted with permission, muscles aching at his crouching back. The ladder freed itself of his weight as he climbed down and into the bed below. He could feel the neglect of the covers as soon as he nestled into it. Goosebumps trickled all over his skin at the foreign bed he'd been exiled into. 

It was weird how different it felt from the times he used it for watching movies or doing homework. That was also something new he was getting used to doing. But the good thing about it being so cold was that it helped him start nodding off. 

Jean yawned, “Goodnight, Marco.” 

As expected, he got no response. He murmured to himself as he shifted to his side, holding the sheets close to his face so his throat wouldn't dry out from the cold and dry air. But then his eyes, heavy with lead, popped wide when he heard creaking and fabric from above making their way down. 

Marco stole the top bunks blankets and laid them on top of Jean's. When he was done, he effortlessly shoved him closer to the wall with those powerful yet gentle hands of his and made himself at home with the space he'd made. 

“Thought you wanted to sleep on top?” Jean complained as he wrapped blanket around Marco's shoulder. There was no strength left in him to fight. 

“I didn't want you to be cold.” 

“This might be your only chance, you know.” 

“It won't.” 

Jean felt his body heat and didn't complain. He laid on his belly, tucking a frozen hand under their shared pillow. He was fully aware that this position took away most of the room they had, but even so, Marco copied him and stacked his left leg on top of Jean's right so he wouldn't fall off. 

It was too dark to see much of anything, but the boys searched for one another in the night. The light in their eyes proved to be more than enough. 

“I'm really sorry.” Jean whispered to him. 

Marco hid his hand under the pillow next to his, “For what?” 

“I was supposed to secretly watch over you tonight and somehow … I caused the whole club to shut down.” 

“No you weren't. I am the one who is sorry. I was s'posed to be the designated driver and watch over _you_. And somehow I caused you to shut a whole place down.” 

“Someone spiked your drink because of me.” 

Marco shook his head as best he could against the pillow. His hair was a wavy mop again, “I got drunk because I'm stupid and think everyone has good intentions.” 

“No, it wasn't your fault!” 

“Shhh. It wasn't yours either.” 

“ … You're not going to let me apologize, are you?” 

“Nah-nope. 'Sides, I'm not even that drunk. I know exactly what I'm doing.” 

As he said this, he engulfed his hand over Jean's. It startled him at first, but then their fingers snaked together, weaving into one with their sharing warmth. Jean wanted to be scared, but being with Marco always brought that fuzziness of comfort, like if somehow – one way or another – things really were going to be OK. Be that temperament issues, self doubt or past obsessions. Marco made him comfortable having all those things. 

“Sleep well,” Jean softly spoke, staring at the happy set of eyes in front of him. 

Marco stroked Jean's pinky with a thumb, sending images of the way he hadn't been able to control himself yesterday when he saw Marco in those cacti pajamas and green sandal slippers. Yeah. He was a total goner. As much as Jean saw him as a friend – regardless of his feelings – he was having a hard time lying to himself that that's how they should stay. 

“G'night, Jean. I'll see you in the morning. Oh, but I have to tell you something first.” 

“Mm?” Jean buried his blushing head deeper into the pillow with the squeeze Marco gave at their hands, “'N what's that?” 

“I like to cuddle.” 

_!!_


	20. Lucid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you give a Marco a Jean all morning ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I know this took a looong time to update, but I can explain. I think those of us living in the US can agree that November has been a shitty month due to the new elect*d pres*dent and that just really got me depressed and I couldn't write. 
> 
>  
> 
> Also, my laptop for some reason had no wifi connection for over a week even though my phone did? But I fixed it thanks to youtube and so here I am now. Have a chapter full of nothing but self-indulgent fluff that was born out of misery haha !
> 
>  
> 
> If I update late again, it's because I'm enjoying the holidays and I hope you all do too!!!

There were two things Marco felt when he first woke up a mere four hours after falling asleep with Jean in the clutches of his arms. One of them was the mind numbing pressure riding in his skull, causing him to squeeze his newly awaken eyes shut again. There was a storm in his head and a desert in his mouth, and although the discomfort inside of him dulled very little with every swallow he forced, he didn't dare stir.

 

Because the second thing he felt was a soft body wrapped around him like a third blanket. Marco could feel Jean, but he couldn't see him – and not only because of the darkened sky outside. The boy was hidden under their two shared comforters, face nestled against Marco's chest with his warm breath still deep and rhythmic with sleep. He could feel one of his self proclaimed amazing thighs slung over his hip and one of his arms tucked around his torso.

 

He'd never pegged Jean as a cuddler – mostly due to his aggressiveness, and yet here he was holding onto him like if it were as natural as the rain falling from outside. Marco fondly smiled at the beige hair peaking out from the sheets, and very reluctantly, removed the arm he had around Jean to pull the blanket down.

 

“There he is,” Marco whispered to himself, admiring the barely visible sight below him and placing his limb back to how it was before.

 

It wasn't the first time he'd seen Jean sleeping, but it _was_ the first time he'd been this close to the phenomenon. Unlike when he was awake, there was no frown, judgment, irritation or annoyance marking the features on his face. His expression was of someone who had no worries yet or had completed all the responsibilities they'd sought out to accomplish. It was tired, but happily satisfied … with unbelievable bed head.

 

Marco swallowed again, ignoring all the memories he didn't want to digest so soon, and rested his chin on the top of the itchiness of Jean's hair. He pulled him in closer, almost embracing him too hard. It's just – he was relieved Jean was alright. He was certain he had a few good bruises hiding under his shirt, but that was the extent of the damage. They'd been incredibly lucky for escaping with only scratches and purple blotches.

 

He sighed with tiredness and caressed the back of Jean's warm back to get his mind off of the scenes in his head. The shirt wrinkled against his palm when he brushed it upwards, but it smoothed out when he went down. Marco didn't know when he'd ever be able to hold him this way again and just thinking of how foolish he was last night for letting his friend know he liked touching before going to sleep made his cheeks burn pink with embarrassment. But he held on either ways.

 

 _I'll be selfish until he wakes up and kicks me off the bed,_ Marco decided. He closed his eyes and acknowledged his numb arm resting underneath Jean's head. He could still feel his breathing and the prickling of his leg hairs against his own leg where their pants crinkled up from repositioning so many times last night. He could feel Jean everywhere and it gave him the comfort that a million blankets couldn't.

 

He saved the feeling into the confines of his mind for the days that would be against him. And those days were fast approaching.

 

“Mmmm … “ Jean murmured in his slumber.

 

Marco twitched, suddenly afraid of him waking up to find them tangled like a braid. He hadn't protested against cuddling together last night, in fact, he was the one who had made the first move. But right now was different, right now they were both sort of well rested and had their minds in the right place. Jean probably wouldn't like seeing the way they'd been napping.

 

Very carefully, Marco slid his limp arm up from under their pillow, removed the other that was holding onto his friend, and slowly twisted his waist in the opposite direction. When he felt Jean's leg plop on the mattress, he quickly turned his back to him as the other woke up with a start. Marco didn't know what to do, so he remained still and pretended he was still asleep.

 

“Shit. Fuck,” Jean's sleepy voice announced, confused, “What? Why's it so cold?”

 

Marco said nothing, continuing his act and facing the room while Jean wiggled from behind him. Now that his emotions and mind were reminding him that they were indeed on the same page about wanting Jean as someone a little more than just a friend, his stomach began to flutter on beat with the fluid drizzle outside tapping on the window.

 

He felt him sit up and shiver, then with his skin prickling up he felt Jean's eyes hard on his back. The boy remained motionless for a while, allowing enough cold to creep into the cocoon of their shelter before he decided to say something again.

 

“You awake?” Jean asked, so low it could've been mistaken for a breath of air. Marco contemplated on whether or not he should answer, but before he could decide, Jean scrambled inside the blankets again, pressing his icicle toes onto Marco's warmer ones and leaning his forehead onto his back, snaking an arm around his ribs with a content hum.

 

_I wasn't kicked off_

 

He hadn't expected that, but the way Jean started to nuzzle his face and body against him like how they'd been glued earlier surprised him even more. Jean was what Marco would consider hard – hard in the way his personality shined, hard in the way he was readable sometimes (like now), and hard by the words that he spoke and the way he spoke them. But this side of him was anything but that. Or maybe Jean was just small bits of _everything_.

 

“It's fucking cold,” He mumbled, the cloth of Marco's shirt muffled his words. It sounded like if he were complaining about being the big spoon and it almost choked a giggle out of Marco's throat. It also gave him an idea.

 

Still pretending to be asleep, Marco took in a shaky inhale and began to fidget out of Jean's hold. He felt the other protest, but then stopped when he realized he was just turning to face him. Marco couldn't see if Jean was buying his acting, and he hoped he looked natural with the way he grabbed him and slid him close to his chest again. He groaned a little to give it a real affect.

 

“Marco?” Jean whispered, cold toes never leaving a warmer pair. They mingled into one shape again, this time, nearly face to face.

 

“Hm?” Marco made his voice deep and groggy as he fluttered his eyes open.

 

“You awake?”

 

“Yeah, yeah. I'm awake.” He sniffled and blinked as he saw Jean relax on the pillow. He looked so calm and harmless in his morning haze, "G'morning, Jean."

 

 

“'S cold.”

 

Marco nodded, “Mm-hmm, very.”

 

“I knew you'd be colder than me. That's why—that's why it's alright if you still want to do … this.” He gestured to their current position, “I can handle it, but I know you can't so … “

 

“Oh really?” Marco asked, suppressing a smile. He actually didn't mind the cold all that much and Jean knew that since he's been with him in the car with his windows rolled down with temperatures lower than this, “Guess I owe you one.”

 

“Nah, it's cool,” Jean looked up at the _beautiful_ sight of the bunk above them. If only it had star stickers, then it'd make more sense for him to look so concentrated on the old wood. But what the wood was to Jean was his hair to Marco. It really was incredible. There were parts that swirled like the tips that ice cream machines created while other parts spiked up like if it had gel. And like many other times, he was wondering if the color was natural or not.

 

There was a cough, “Y-You're staring.”

 

_Oops._

 

“I think we slept a little crazy last night.”

 

Jean turned away from the top bunk view and away from Marco's arms. He settled into staring at the wall, leaving his pink ears on display for the other to see despite trying to hide the way he felt, “Anyone would with-with what little space we had. I think I even had to push you off of me a few times.”

 

That'd never happened, but Marco went along with it anyways, “Sorry. It must be uncomfortable having me this close. Want me to lay on the floor or something?”

 

“No! I mean, no,” Jean's foot started bouncing on the bed, “How would I explain to your mom that you froze to death? She'd kill me.”

 

“You sure? I won't really freeze to death, you know. And I'm aware of how you don't want any of my cooties. She'd understand.”

 

“When did I say I didn't want – what makes you think I don't like … You know what?” He rhetorically asked, hiding into the blanket, “Shut up. Freeze for all I care.”

 

Marco laughed this time, feeling Jean shake with him since they were still pretty close. This was flirting, right? This _had_ to count as flirting. Sharing a bed was already off the charts – that kind of stuff was for people outside his experiences. But it was harmless. It was all harmless to them both and the proof was in the way they just laid there sheltering away from the air nipping at their noses and ears.

 

Jean gave out a slight tremble now that they weren't glued skin to skin. He really was bad with winter and coldness in general, it made Marco wonder how he'd survived these past freezing nights all alone. He stared at his lumpy figure under the sheets, heartbeat slowly rising as he inched closer.

 

Neither boy said anything when Marco spooned him from behind. They didn't say anything when they shifted to fit together better or when one of them moved their legs in between the other. They said nothing when Jean found Marco's hand and how Marco squeezed it to give him that same reassurance that Jean had given him at the club. They wouldn't talk about it because they were hiding it all in the confines of the blanket, it was as if they weren't really doing any of it. It didn't count if no one could see.

 

They listened to the drizzle turn to pounding rain as Jean began to play with the rough patches on Marco's palm. They were from lifting weights at the gym when his class was shortened or canceled. He hadn't had time – or enough money – to go buying gloves to prevent the blisters or skin peeling from happening. But he was glad it was being put to some use now.

 

He closed his eyes as Jean continued messing with his skin. He could imagine his light brows squirming and his lips making funny shapes like if he were attempting to read his palm while also trying to figure out how he'd received those imperfections. Marco could hold him all day until he came up with an answer if it were a different world. He really could.

 

But it wasn't, and there was too much shame teasing his conscience now that he was indulging himself with Jean.

 

Something had happened at the club last night that he needed to take care of. He had remembered everything. From the way he'd drunk two bottles of alcohol filled juice – not one like how Jean thought – down to the way he'd almost turned into ice in Jean's shower because he hadn't known how to use the knobs. He remembered the pain, the puke, the way Jean had made him feel. He remembered seeing Daz standing next to the man who'd landed hits on Jean.

 

He remembered how the fight had torn something inside of him that would be near impossible to forget. Even when he would become a middle-aged man, he knew he'd always be able to recall the night where glass fell like harsh rain and how his friends had cried and ran outside when the doors had finally opened. And that's why he'd agreed with himself to go pay his curious friend a visit after he left Jean's house. Whenever that might be.

 

“What's wrong?”

 

Marco gazed at the head in front of him, he had stopped playing with his hand, “Nothing, why?”

 

“You started breathing really fast. You need to throw up?”

 

“I'm fine,” He inhaled, taking in Jean's soapy scent, “I think I already emptied out everything in my stomach yesterday.”

 

“What? So you remember?”

 

“Just little parts,” Marco lied, he wasn't sure why, “I know you were watching over me and I know you wanted to get wasted, but somehow things got really messed up, didn't they?”

 

“You have _no_ idea,” He was thoughtful for a moment then shrugged and grabbed Marco's hand again, he realized Jean was keeping the awful details from him and it made his stomach give birth to more flutters, “But you don't have to worry about it. 'S not like it matters now. We're all OK and I'm just glad it's over.”

 

“Thank you for looking out for me, Jean,” Marco breathed, hoping he knew the extent of his gratitude. He buried his nose in the curve of Jean's neck, expecting a _”For what?”_ or another shut up – something along those lines. Instead he got a squeal and a violent twitch that made him jump as well.

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Jean froze, “I'm ticklish there, careful!”

 

“What?”

 

“Don't breath so close to my neck or you'll get an elbow to your gut.”

 

“You're ticklish … here?” Marco blew air on the sensitive spot and listened to the strained gurgle coming from his friend with exited ears. It made his tension dull if only for a while.

 

“Yes there, you ass!”

 

“Oh, you can't expect me _not_ to tickle you after you confessed your … _weakness_ ,” Marco made that last word into a mixture of a whisper and air as he blew on him again.

 

Jean shivered, not from the cold this time, and did a poor job at stifling a laugh, “You better stop, or I'll kick your ass you—“

 

He wasn't able to finish his sentence. An involuntary river of chuckles left his throat and floated in the quiet and still room with the rain doing a poor job at muffling it. Marco wiggled his nose against his skin, now making his fingers dance on his rib cage. Jean squirmed and convulsed against his pillow but he wasn't really trying to get away from the merciless Marco.

 

Not that he could, anyway. He was trapped inside of the other boy's arms and legs, getting the blankets wrapped around their heavy and bruised limbs. The frigid atmosphere was forgotten, along with their worries about getting out of bed or confronting friends. For the moment, they were just two boys who simply didn't want to leave the other alone.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

“Shit! It's cold, cold, cold!”

 

By seven-twenty AM, the two had gotten up to use the restroom and brush their teeth. They'd had enough of their morning breath and pretending they didn't have it was reaching its limits. Jean was the last to finish, now running from the shut door to the bed. Marco watched his crooked and swirling hair remain in place as he bounced on top of him, kneeing him close to his groin.

 

“Whoops, almost killed ya there,” Jean cackled, taking a second longer than necessary to hop off of him and onto his area against the wall.

 

Marco could feel his warmth immediately when he huddled inside, he didn't bother being reluctant about latching onto him the moment he settled in. Jean didn't protest either, goosebumps trailed along his pale arms as his friend scooped him up and squeezed him hard as a form of revenge on almost cracking his eggs, so to speak.

 

“Ok, sorry!” Jean groaned in the embrace, kicking his feet helplessly before he was released, “Are you _trying_ to kill me? First it was my neck, now it's my entire body.”

 

“Of course I'm not trying to kill you,” Marco was quieter than him when he spoke, he didn't want to wake his mother but Jean kept reassuring him she was a heavy, heavy sleeper, “But that gives me an idea for my next question.”

 

“Isn't it my turn?”

 

“No, you asked me if I was scared of the dark five minutes ago. You can't cheat again, I'm aware now.”

 

“Ho, really?”

 

“Yes, really,” Marco grinned, hooking a leg around his, “Alright, my nineteenth question is: if you had one month to live, how would you spend that time?”

 

Jean pouted, looking up at Marco's hair as he thought. His last few answers had come easily, but now it was that part of their game where they went into deeper, harder questions that couldn't be answered with a single sentence. He grabbed Marco's hand and palmed it against his chin as he searched for a serious response. The other just watched with delight as he scratched himself with his blisters.

 

“Well, I guess I would leave. I'd just disappear without saying anything because it'd be pretty fucked up to make your loved ones watch you die for that long. Kinda morbid, right?”

 

“I dunno, I think I'd tell everyone I know how I felt about them.”

 

“That's fucked up.”

 

“It's messed up to tell someone who I love that I love them?”

 

Jean shook his head, “No, but you shouldn't say it when you're about to be _gone forever_. It'll make everyone fucking sad.”

 

“Ok then, what's better – telling someone you love them before you disappear,” Marco challenged as he placed his free hand on Jean's knee, “or never, ever, ever for never getting the chance to tell them how you feel about them? Closure versus no closure?”

 

“No closure. Period. It leaves a certain mystery in the air.”

 

“I still pick closure.”

 

“'Course you do,” Jean said, as if he were telling someone that on sunny days the clouds are white and the sky is blue. He wearily placed Marco's banged up hand on the pillow and laid his cheek on top, “What would you tell Mr. Pixis if your time was numbered?”

 

“Mr. Pixis? Is that part of your twentieth question?”

 

“Oh just answer it.”

 

“Ok, ok … Mm … I'd tell him thank you for 'forgetting' to mark my wrong answers when he grades our tests and quizzes. Otherwise I'd be failing.”

 

“Maybe if you studied you wouldn't need the help.”

 

Marco sandwiched his face with his other hand, creating a fish-like shape on Jean's face, “Now it's your turn to ask a question.”

 

He swatted him off, getting comfortable as a roll of thunder passed through them, it ringed in their bones and hushed their voices, “I've been wondering this for a while now,” Jean quietly admitted, “When you have your matches or whatever, you know how you roll around on the floor with guys?”

 

“Yes … ”

 

_Please be a meaningful and deep question_

 

“Do you ever get boners during one of your fights?”

 

The room was still hidden in the dark blue of the rising sun and the weighty clouds filled with rain, but Marco knew that his blush could be seen even in the lack of lighting. Heck, with how close Jean was, he could probably feel it radiating off of his cheeks, “I-I— _no_. I've never even thought of that ever happening to anyone!”

 

“It's _had_ to happen to someone before. I bet you a hundred bucks it has.”

 

“Even if it has,” Marco started, feeling the grip on his legs tighten by Jean's accord, “the other fighter wouldn't be able to tell. We wear cups … down there—“

 

“On your _dicks_.”

 

“Yes. Yes on that. So we wouldn't be able to feel it if-if that'd happen. I know some positions may look a bit suggestive, but it's actually kinda gross. This one time this guy had me pinned to the floor and his sweat landed in my mouth.”

 

“Ew.”

 

“Exactly, ew.”

 

“ … Wanna fight right now?”

 

Marco stared at him, searching for anything that said he was kidding. But no. Jean had that same intensity that'd been present the day they'd battled it out at the gym, only this time, there seemed to be something conniving about the way his eyes glimmered. A slight tremble ran through his body at the thought of Jean trying to do something he really, really shouldn't. _Shouldn't_ , but he wouldn't mind seeing him try.

 

“It's too cold,” Marco pointed out before he let him get away with … whatever he was trying to do.

 

“Let's do it in bed.”

 

_What is he doing to me_

 

“N-Next time, not today. I'm sore from last night and, and I know you are too. It'll be a fair fight when we're all better, right?”

 

Jean thought it over in his head, mulling over the words he'd unfortunately promised, “Deal. Alright, so, my next question is—“

 

“It's my turn, cheater.”

 

After Marco's question about how Jean felt about bugs went unanswered, the boys squawked and fought off of each others weak insults. Jean would roll his dark eyes at the sense and injustice Marco was pointing out, hitting him with remarks that had no point because he knew he wasn't being fair. But Marco let him get away with it, he liked seeing his confidence even when it was being used against him.

 

Eventually their game was forgotten and they settled into calm and motionless resting again. The drumming of the rain soothed their tired and red eyes, but they didn't fall asleep again. They didn't want to. And to keep themselves awake, they ran their fingers through whatever parts of the others body that wasn't considered inappropriate, pretending to compare their differences.

 

First, Jean gasped at the solid build on Marco's thighs after poking it. Where his was made out of pure cardio and questionable food, the others was made out of heavy weights and more questionable food – but with less sugar in it. He acknowledged his defeat quickly, shooting Marco a glare that made him let out an airy laugh.

 

They compared hand sizes – Marco's was bigger. They compared feet sizes – Jean was a half size larger. They compared flexibility – Jean was double jointed and could _almost_ do a split. Marco didn't believe him, but he kept that to himself. Their height and mass was the only thing they didn't compare, they both knew who had more.

 

And finally, Marco got a kick out of watching Jean finish their competition by complaining about the hardness on his forearms. His fingers ghosted over his skin, unsure of the blatant contact that they hadn't done for the other body parts, but then soon gave in. His fingers pressed, skimmed and analyzed over every square inch. Marco's hairs were even picked or plucked by the scientist wanting to know what he was made out of. 

 

When Jean was done groping, he brought his arm up to his face and started counting all the little freckles it was splattered in. His eyes went crossed by how close it was to his nose, but Marco thought he still looked handsome that way – stubble, eye boogers and all.

 

“One, two, three, four, five… eighty-six, eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eight-nine … one million, you have one million on this arm,” He said triumphantly.

 

Marco shot down a giggle as he snaked his fingers up to his bicep. It tickled, but he wasn't about to admit that after attacking Jean earlier. Instead he closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of his friend gripping his usually hidden muscles with what he knew wasn't jealousy or hate. He knew Jean really liked his tattoo for some reason, and for another, he really liked that _he_ liked it.

 

His past boyfriends – and even boys he'd met during his waiter days at Red Lobster who'd hang out with him after his shift – all praised the drawing on his back and where it peaked out from his shirt. He'd never thought of it as something _that_ amazing. Sure it was large, sure it was shocking to find someone like him with something that daring, but the meaning behind it meant so much to him that he'd never found it as something rebellious like how they'd made him feel.

 

And he was thankful that Jean looked at his wings like what they were – simply artwork.

 

“Hey,” Jean whispered, pinching his flesh.

 

Marco cracked an eye open, “Mm?”

 

“Can I see it? The whole thing, I mean.”

 

“You want to?”

 

“If it's alright with you.”

 

He pretended to think it over, chewing on his bottom lip like if he were really going to say no, “Yeah, sure.”

 

Jean's excitement was easily visible when the words came out, making Marco irrationally nervous even though it wasn't the first time he'd been shirtless in front of the boy. He gave Marco as much as space as he could to let him sit up, pulling the blankets up to his chin as the other plunged himself into the cold. Marco felt his half-a-size-larger-feet swaying at the end of the bed as chills crawled all around his flesh now that he was out of their gathered warmth.

 

He shivered and slowly peeled his pajama top off over his messy headed hair. The black strands flopped over his face when he was done, and his skin prickled harder at the _extra_ lost heat. With haste, he plopped back down with his back facing Jean so he could stare as much as he wanted and so he wouldn't have to so see how self-aware he felt about being half naked in his bedroom, on his bed, with him.

 

“Whoa,” Was all Jean said after a brief pause.

 

“You can—you can touch if you want.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Marco could only nod.

 

“Don't mind if I do.”

 

He heard the smile in his voice as his kind fingers found him again, painting over the inked lines on his rigid body. He wanted to tell Jean how some parts were wobbly or crooked or misshapen because Reiner's dad had been drinking before and during the process, but then decided on saying nothing. He could feel the awe in Jean's lingering grazes even with faulty marks forever engraved in him, realizing he didn't have to explain mistakes to someone who didn't see them.

 

“How's it feel like to have wings?” Jean asked, running a hand over one of his shoulder blades. His palm was so warm.

 

It took everything Marco had not to tremble, he settled for rolling the bone in a subtle stretch, “Sometimes I forget they're even there.”

 

He heard Jean whisper something to himself, something that was drowned out by the sound of Marco's own beating heart. Maybe Jean could hear it thumping against his chest, maybe he could hear how it was shouting to the world that he was absolutely lucid and wanting in their private moment. And for the first time since his grand revelation of emotions, he _wanted_ his friend to know about the crush transforming into something more profound and wholehearted. 

 

“Marco … ”

 

Marco's breath caught at the body closing in on his. Once again, without warning, they were spoons and forks and everything domestic that they could be. Jean's actions were heavily confusing him, but he knew – in a way – that they were just experimenting with how intimate they could be with their friendship, and so far, they surprisingly hadn't crossed the others comfort zone yet.

 

It almost made him feel guilty for having rushing, secretive thoughts people weren't supposed to have for their friends. But it was hard keeping any prohibited attraction away, though, when the source of his affection was caressing him so faithfully. Jean's hands were traveling on to the roundness of his shoulder, using his nails to gently sink into his skin before sliding down to his triceps where they grasped and didn't let go.

 

 _I can do it so easily_ , Jean leaned his forehead onto his back, _I can just turn around and—_

 

His mind went blank. Something small and crescent shaped pressed itself onto his spine where the wings were separated like the center of a book. It almost took him a second to realize what they were, but then when the bell of the kiss filled the stillness of the room, he knew they'd been lips – chapped and cool and Jean's.

 

The beating in his rib cage skipped, _had that really happened?_ There was a buzz causing his toes to curl and uncurl that said _yes, it did_. Marco's mind and face, down to his neck and chest grew hot. He wanted to flip over and ask Jean what that was for, to be the man in romantic novels or movies that he's only heard about, to play it cool and return the favor with more passion and confidence that could make them both melt despite the freezing air nipping at their noses.

 

But he was still just a teenager with emotions that didn't know how to coexist with his thoughts. He didn't even know if that's what the other wanted. So Marco laid frozen as Jean quickly leaned back and detached himself like if he were just as surprised that he'd done it. And before either one could break the thick silence, a loud and shameless rumble scared them both into almost forgetting.

 

“Y-You hungry?” Jean asked, his voice was tight and careful.

 

It scared Marco to think he was angry, but that couldn't be it. It could be humiliation, but that didn't feel right either.

 

 _Ah_ , He thought, knowing what it was now. Jean probably thought he had gone too far. But even if the gesture on his back had been out of nothing but admiration for the art, he didn't want him to feel like it was out of the line or inappropriate. It was the opposite of that and he showed his friend that was the case in the way he rolled over and displayed an encouraging grin on his face.

 

“I thought that was your stomach?”

 

He watched Jean's sharp eyes go wide, then hesitant, then gentle with knowing. A half smile arose from the place that'd kissed him, but he was still being cautious,“Are you—are you sure?”

 

“Mm-hmm, for sure,” Marco knew the question wasn't for the owner of the growl, it was asking if what he'd done was really alright. He wished he could show him it was fine without having the thought of planting one on his back, too, “So the real question here is if _you're_ hungry.”

 

“I can—I guess I can eat.”

 

“Can't wait to taste your food.”

 

“My food? I don't think I should cook.”

 

Marco looked around for his shirt, purposely running a hand over Jean's, “What? Why not? It can't be that bad. I'd feel weird taking over your kitchen.”

 

“So you'll be alright with eating fire?” The sarcasm in his tone barely had any rough or rudeness like usual, but it was enough to make Marco stop worrying about if he'd keep his undeserved shame hovering over his head. Progress.

 

“Hm. I don't think I've ever had that before. I'll be happy to taste your fire, Jean.”

 

He flicked him on the ear where it was still rosy with blush, “I guess you can't burn cereal or frozen waffles in the toaster. But if you want eggs, you're going to have to make that on your own.”

 

“What if I help you?” Marco proposed, finding his shirt somewhere over the hills of the covers, “Then next time I sleepover, you'll be able to do it on your own for all of us.”

 

Jean helped him pop the collar over his head, eyeing his neck as it slid down do his clavicle, “O-Ok, next time.”

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

By eight-thirty in the morning, the house was as still and quiet as it was hours ago. There were only the small sounds – like floorboards slowly warping due to the cold and rusty pipes crying about their old age, the rain outside turning to drizzle, then into pat-pat-pat's on the roof where it'd eventually slide to the gutters. But that was the sum of it all.

 

Jean's mother was still resting in her bed, her room was a sanctuary and a bubble that kept her snores from being heard anywhere else in the house. She had stayed up late last night again, feeling the routine of the week when she comes home from work at the hour Jean goes to school. Sometimes she'd take sleeping pills to help her wake up at the same time as him on weekends, but she'd decided against it this time since the boys had gone out and might've had an emergency.

 

But her phone had been silent all night and soon enough, so had she. And she still was, and the boys still were, too.

 

Time had done very little to change the darkness enveloping the town. Although it'd stopped raining, the clouds had remained gray and not quite finished with its job yet. But even so, there were peaks of fighting light making their way in through shuffled curtains in the kitchen, naked windows in the bathrooms and a curious boy.

 

Marco had been the braver of the two, getting out of bed first only after they remembered to stop getting distracted with one another and couldn't take the hunger anymore. He'd rummaged through his duffle bag for all of the sweaters he had packed, throwing the pile on the foot of the bed while he went into Jean's disastrous closet.

 

He hadn't found _anything_ slightly resembling – at the very least – the thin sweater the boy had worn weeks ago. Without making a sound, Marco had dug through piles of jeans, shirts, socks and wife-beaters that he didn't even know were clean. It had all smelled like him. Weirdly sweet, a little thick and faintly resembling oranges.

 

He'd stopped his search when Jean had gotten out of bed. The creaks of the mattress echoed around the room when Marco had turned to find him in none other than his very own hoodie. It was from their school, he'd taken it from the lost and found box inside the main office one day when he'd been checked out. It'd belonged to someone large, making the sleeves go past his wrists … but with Jean wearing it, it swallowed his entire arms whole.

 

“I'm good with this,” He'd said, failing to notice how nicely it adorned him, “I gotta go pee again, wait for me.”

 

In his absence, Marco had plugged their phones to charge, had tugged on some socks and his handy-dandy sandal slipper, and had huddled himself inside the rest of the sweaters he'd brought with him. He knew being prepared was never a bad thing. Even as he stood inches away from Jean's window now, seeing his breath fog up the glass, he couldn't feel any of the cold.

 

His eyes watched the droplets of water slowly stream down until they joined other droplets and picked up speed, disappearing when they finished their unofficial race. He looked passed that at the neighbors in front of them. Their house still looked asleep on the inside, but on the outside, the whole world was moving.

 

There were broken branches on the ground – nothing too dangerous, just small pieces of wood with the occasional leaf still attached to it. The wind carried some of them to the other houses like a gift, but not just branches. There were so many red, orange, brown and yellow leaves – all wet, all scattered on driveways and on the road. They spun around as the air carried drier ones to where lawns still sported bald spots.

 

He could see the soaked and mushy pages of a newspaper that hadn't been bothered to be picked up sticking to a mailbox down the street, he could see a stray cat at the house next to theirs crawling under a car where a smaller cat was waiting. There were birds leaving and coming on the naked trees, the tails of squirrels looking for nuts, a rotting pumpkin on someones yard. He could watch the nothingness all day.

 

Just like how he could've easily watched Jean laying in bed with his head still in the clouds, dreaming of whatever the hot head dreams of. But as much as he had enjoyed embracing Jean so openly without him absolutely _hating_ it, he'd be satisfied with just the peeks he's granted in second period when they're doing class readings and it's Jean's turn. He liked watching the way his eyes squint at words he doesn't really know how to pronounce or how he plays with his earlobe when he's done reciting.

 

It's always the little things that make the tightness in his chest all that heavier. A good heavy, a sweet kind that he wished he could taste.

 

“You're doing the thing again,” Jean said, making him jump. He was leaning against the door frame with eyes that smiled and teased.

 

_How long has he been there?_

 

“I'm just looking outside.”

 

“I know, but the way you do it is … mm, how should I say it … I don't really know, but it's the way you look at it that makes it a _thing_. It's very, uh, real. Or something like that.”

 

Jean met him by the window, putting his hands in the sweater pouch as he stayed a good distance away. The playfulness in his eyes walked down to his mouth where it turned into a smirk, like if he knew there wouldn't really be anything grand or interesting outside.

 

“Can you take a picture of it next time I do it?” Marco asked, “I think my mom's told me that before, but the way she said it, I think she said I space out too much.”

 

“Yeah. That sounds about right.”

 

“I like what you said better. It sounded like a compliment.”

 

“Who's complimenting you?” Jean kept his focus on the wet pavement below. He was still being careful with his words – not hard, but not soft either. Somewhere in between, “By the way … how are you feeling?”

 

“Oh, I'm alright, why?”

 

He turned his head towards Marco, lifting a brow, “Because you got drunk last night and threw up like a mother during her first trimester? And-and you've got bruises and cuts, right? Don't they hurt?”

 

“You worry too much,” Marco said, feeling the dull stings of the glass that'd landed on him and Armin. If he didn't think of them, it was like they weren't even there. But it was true when he'd told Jean they weren't as bad as the time he cut himself on Sasha's cookie jar, “They don't hurt. And besides, I'm a fast healer.”

 

“Yeah? Well they didn't look healed when I saw your … when I saw your back. You should tell your mom to put some disinfectant on them when you get home. And band-aids.”

 

Marco was about to ask him if that was the reason to why he'd kissed him, if it'd been out of pity. But the words caught in his throat. It'd be a long while before he could even _think_ of what he'd done without it turning his brain into much. And besides that, he knew better. There was a time and place for everything and by how tense Jean was right now with the fresh guilt from letting him get hurt and with his careful choice of words after the kiss, he knew he should at least wait a couple days to bring it up. That, along with other things. Things that could no longer stay hidden.

 

“Jean, can I ask you a favor?”

 

“What? Why'd you get so serious all of a sudden?”

 

“Can we—can we hang out on the Sunday before Thanksgiving break starts?” Marco could feel heat threatening to crawl up his face, and with the way Jean was gawking at him, he felt like he might already know. He was glad at that moment for his density when it came to romance.

 

“Aren't we going to hang out lots of times before then?”

 

“Of course … But I really want to hang out on that day, specifically, no matter what.”

 

Marco felt him trying to search for answers in his eyes, but he did his best at keeping the feelings he held well out of view by holding in his breath. Heavy and full, that's exactly how Jean made him feel. And if he stared any longer, the weight might be too much and cause him to spill the beans right then and there.

 

“Alright,” Jean gave up, “I'll save the date, but why that day _specifically_?”

 

“There's something I want to tell you. And I want you to think it over while I'm gone.”

 

“Is it … is it bad?”

 

“N—“ He stopped, maybe it would be considered bad to Jean having a friend telling him how they feel. Maybe he'd feel betrayed, “—actually, I don't know.”

 

“What do you mean? It's a simple yes or no question. Either something is bad or it isn't, so which is it?”

 

“Jean—“

 

“What, Marco?”

 

He didn't prepare himself for the fear that had implanted itself onto the boy in front of him, but it did. It was like he'd said he didn't want to be friends anymore rather than just making definite plans with him. Jean's eyes were concentrated and his mouth tight and thin like when he'd finished helping Marco puke the first time outside the club. But right now, he wasn't angry at himself, he almost looked hurt.

 

“You don't have to worry,” Marco took a step in front of him, arms twitching to comfort Jean. He couldn't tell him everything would be alright, because if he got grossed out or uncomfortable by him, would they even remain friends? He wasn't sure they would, “It's not like—It's not like I'm moving or sick or something serious like that.”

 

“'M not worried,” Jean lied, making himself smaller. It was as if he knew what the other wanted, but instead of leaning into Marco's unsure body, he leaned back against the window, “But, you're kinda freaking me out. Why can't you tell me now what you'll be able to tell me by then? You're really gonna make me wait three weeks?”

 

“You'll forget what I've said as soon as I'm gone.”

 

“No, I won't.” He countered, pouting.

 

Marco sat with him against the windowsill as best he could with the lack of room, fingers fumbling to find another set of hands. When his warm skin touched the cloth around Jean, he tugged at the cotton until the other crawled out of the sleeve. He was cold again, but Marco held on to him out in the open rather than hidden under the covers. They still didn't acknowledge or even move their heads towards their newfound habit.

 

“You're my best friend, Jean. I'm not going to say or do anything that'll hurt you.”

 

There was tension below his hand, followed by a release, “I know, I believe you. But _fuck_ , why'd you have to make it sound so scary?”

 

“Sorry, I thought if I was serious you'd take me seriously.”

 

“Well – yeah – it worked.”

 

“You'll probably laugh after I tell you, so please don't worry about it.”

 

“I said I wasn't,” Jean glared at the corner of his room, but from Marco's peripherals now changing to completely gazing at the boy next to him, he noticed that same shade of pink reuniting with the tips of his ears.

 

He grinned, “Ok, that's all I'm asking for.”

 

“Oh, but I know something that'll make you laugh right now.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“When you come back, I have something I want to tell _you_ ,” Jean faced him, confident in his words even though they caused little reaction, “How do you like _that_? Two can play this game. Except you have to wonder all week what I have to say!”

 

_Ah, he's back_

 

Marco leaned closer to him, noticing the way he froze but didn't move away. He used his breath to tickle the flesh on Jean's exposed neck when he spoke, “It's alright, I already know I'm your best friend, too.”

 

He never saw his hoodie again after that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience guys, I really really appreciate it. And i've been reading more fics lately and noticed lots of writers leave their tumblr, would you be interested in me leaving that? lol if you are here is my [tumblr](http://thisishowithrash.tumblr.com/) it's a mess and it kinda sucks.
> 
> if you don't have one of those my instagram is the same username as my ao3 name and we can follow each other there, you can send me messages rather than leaving comments! (i'm on private but i'll add you i promise)
> 
> have happy holidays, stay safe and happy new years in advance!!! I can't wait to give you guys an update in 2017!!!


	21. Incandescent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the late update. I wish I could say it was bc I'd enjoyed the holidays super hard, but no. I have taken up a night job, which was when I would write most of the time, and so now I have two jobs and little update time :(
> 
>  But still! Even if slowly, I hope I get to finish this story. Tbh, I think we only have a few more chapters to go. I still don't know, to this day I'm still winging it.

"It's just one of those things, you know? It's like you know, but you don't _really_ know. You keep thinking that maybe what you're feeling is so strong that you're just projecting it onto the other person because why not? Why not torture yourself into thinking your crush has a crush on you, too?"

 

_Beep._

 

Jean dragged a hand across half of his face, the left eye catching the vibrant blue of the minty gum in front of him. He plucked it out of its carton box and plopped it right on top of a pack of mango flavored yogurt.

 

"And you know what else?” He continued, "It's scary, so so scary because before I wouldn't care if someone I was attracted to didn't even like me. I'd just swoop in and start flirting my tongue off and hope I'd get lucky, right? And if they didn't like me, who cares? But with this person … I don't know. Everything with us has been different since before we even hit puberty, so … Ugh. I don't know, Phil, what do you think?"

 

The fifty-eight year old cashier scanning their food items raised his unamused brows and shrugged his scrawny shoulders. Jean's mom had been gone for a good ten minutes now, remembering they'd forgotten to get a carton of eggs when it was their turn in line. Phil had asked Jean if he was interested in a Thanksgiving gift card for a friend or family member. And the rest was history.

 

"See here, alls I know is shit's fucked."

 

"Fucked?" Jean hopelessly asked as he went back to placing their bags in their car, "No, Phil, no don't say that. You're supposed to tell me wise words that'll help me know what to do! Isn't that what old people are for?"

 

"Aye, I ain't that old! And 's that attitude of yours that's the problem, son. You needa fix that mentality first – yous sure do talk a lot of words, but what're you going to do 'bout it, huh? Talk, talk, talk, no! You do, do, do 's what I learned."

 

His white, thick whiskers twitched at each and every word he said, and when Jean was sure he was finished with his … speech, if that was a good name to call it, he looked around to see any signs of his mother. When he was sure that she still wasn't around, he continued his conversation with the stranger.

 

"I do _do_. I k-kissed them yesterday – _kissed_ , Phil. When's the last time you ever kissed someone? The nineteen-twenties?"

 

"Thirty minutes ago in a storage closet with the 'ssociates manager."

 

"Oh."

 

_Beep._

 

"Oh's right," The old man grinned as a wisp of that dirty memory momentarily crossed his mind, "But then again, I've been kissin' her since nineteen- _ninety_ , so it ain't that surprising that I drool all over my wife, now is it?"

 

"Wife? Wow, and here I thought you were a happy bachelor," Jean snorted.

 

"Ha ha, very funny. I know, I'm ugly just like you, so if you feel like this girl of yours might like your fugly butt by even a smidgen, you needa do, do, do! More than kissin'. Anybody can kiss anybody. Anybody can say anything, but put those two together – make those words have action and then you'll get action. Get it?"

 

"Yeah, Fred Flinstone, I get it … but if I lose him as a friend—"

 

"Him?"

 

_Shit, that one slipped out._

 

"Wait, I have one more item!"

 

Jean's mom came tip-toeing (or at least that's what her running looked like) with more than just _one_ item. She had the promised eggs, hair curlers and two very similar shades of pink lip liners that Jean could already hear her saying she absolutely needed. He'd learned to tell the difference between those and eyeliners the day Sasha had done their make up, so if one just happened to go missing due to an experimental boy's curiosity … 

 

When she threw her products on the belt conveyor, there were crumbs on her face that didn't go unnoticed by her son. His eyes snapped from the shades of pink sticks to her betraying cheeks. And all this time he thought trying out samples was a family thing. He guessed you couldn't trust your own mother on Sample Sunday at the farmers market just like how you couldn't always trust your own mouth at keeping in certain pronouns.

 

"Sorry I made you wait," She said to Jean – but meant it more to Phil, digging through her purse for her wallet, "I couldn't make up my mind about which brands to get."

 

"Mm-hmm," Jean sarcastically replied, tapping his foot on the linoleum floors, "And I'm guessing the peanut butter and jelly waffles near aisle seven had nothing to do with it."

 

 _Caught_ , read the expression on her face, but all she did was laugh and shoo him off so she could pay.

 

"Thank you for shoppin' with us, have a lovely day," Phil waved after the last bags had been taken, keeping an eye on Jean that had more interest than threat.

 

"Bye," Jean hissed, feeling a bit annoyed by both adults for not getting what he wanted from them. Lies that his love life would end happily ever after and room temperature samples. Was that really too much to ask for?

 

He sighed, taking the metal car and following his mother to the exit. She hummed as she walked, she'd been in an awful good mood since yesterday – and so had he until all her questioning and teasing had started. One minute, he was sitting alone feeling oddly stuffed and hot like all the soon-to-be turkey's even with Marco's departure. And then the next, his mother comes down stairs with a towel on her round head with _that_ look and … and he knew he'd been caught, too.

 

But like hell he was going to admit anything to her! Yeah, she knew he had a thing for Marco when they were younger – there was no way he could deny that after the tears he'd spilled when he found out he'd had a boyfriend that wasn't him. But he would never hear the end of it if he admitted to having feelings for him _now_. For having feelings that'd never really left.

 

"Are we doing anything for Thanksgiving?" Jean asked, looking to change the subject of his own thoughts as they marched towards their car. His mother was busy reading the receipt when she spoke.

 

"Yes. I'm thinking of inviting a friend over. Is that OK with you?"

 

"Sure. Which friend?" The years were rare when the two actually celebrated the holiday. And when they _did_ decide to do something, it was because they had the funds to support it. It'd never been 'for a friend'. "Is it Ms. Shirley?"

 

"No, no. Not Ms. Shirley. She's going out of state."

 

"Then who?"

 

"Oh, you know. I don't think you've ever met them before, but they're really sweet, so please behave."

 

_They? Them? She's starting to sound like me and the old man … hold up._

 

"Moooom?"

 

" _Oui_?"

 

"What's this friend's name?"

 

"Is it important to know?"

 

"It most certainly is."

 

She casually popped the trunk of the car when they reached it, refusing to meet his eye or answer his question. Jean hovered around her, purposefully making himself annoying so she'd give in. But she was stubborn, of course, just like him.

 

"Mom, don't tell me you _like_ this friend? This _man_ friend?"

 

"Jeanbo, you joke around too much."

 

He could've easily used the opportunity to bombard her with the same amount of questions she had tossed at him after Marco left, but he couldn't. Instead, his face puckered like if he'd licked the juices of off the most bitter lemon, throwing the bags in the trunk while his mother waited for him to finish so she could dispose of the car. Team effort, and yet she was always first to make it inside the Jetta.

 

Ms. Kirstein had never had a boyfriend after Jean's father – well, none that he was ever aware of. In all his life she'd never talked to him about _her_ relationships. She'd only ever helped him with his, and he didn't know why that suddenly seemed off to him. Off and unfair. Why hadn't she ever brought anyone home before?

 

"You know, it's alright if you bring over … guys," Jean started when he entered the vehicle. The words felt backwards in his mouth, like if he were the parent and she the little girl that wasn't so little anymore. But nonetheless he meant it, he didn't want her thinking he'd be upset if she dated, he wasn't seven anymore, "I mean, I want to meet them so I know they're good people. Unless you go for the bad boys?"

 

His mother laughed at that as she turned the car on, backing up and slowly leaving the small parking lot, "No bad boys. Your father was one and he was enough to last me a lifetime."

 

"And that's about all I need to know about the asshole. On to the next topic!"

 

"Listen, Jean," She breathed, it was that tone. Her sad and understanding tone that he despised, "One day you're going to want to know about him. I know this because I went through the same thing with my own father, so why not just ask me now? Aren't you curious as to who he is?"

 

" _No_. I'd rather know what elements make up a basic slice of cheddar cheese. Tell me about this new guy. What does he do? Does he have kids? Does he know about me? That's what I want to know."

 

Her shoulders dropped, "Ok, I'll tell you about him, but there's not very much to tell."

 

On their drive home she admitted that the mystery man's name was Daniel and that he was one of the chef's at the hotel's restaurant. Apparently, he'd wormed his way into his mother's vague interest by giving her free lunch everyday for the past _four_ damn years. She'd finally taken a hint that he wanted more than just giving her free food when they'd found each other leaving work at the same time and he'd asked her out on a date. A date she'd said no to.

 

Jean didn't understand how saying no to a movie ended up with the man coming over for dinner. But the minute she'd revealed he had a six year old son he'd stopped trying to figure it out. He didn't even care how quickly he'd jumped to excitement, his mind hay-wired at the thought of having a possible stepbrother – a real life brother and not someone out of his childhood imaginations.

 

_I'm cool being alone. It's my thing, I've been riding solo since the womb … but he's an only child, too. I could teach him stuff I learned on my own, like how to get out of unwanted conversations about shitty parents and sneaking around a drunk friend in your house._

 

He couldn't wait to tell Marco. He knew he'd laugh and say he was just like his mom, because apparently, Jean was blind to what love looked like on a person's face. Sure.

 

But if Marco thought _he_ was dense, his mother beat him by a million. How could she not have noticed the man liked her all this time? It was incredible. If someone gave him free food for that long, Jean knew he'd be able to notice right away since it rarely happened. Or at least that's what he liked to tell himself. He also liked to think he saw something in Marco's eyes after he'd—after he'd kissed him, but even he knew that could've been made up in his head.

 

Hope was a dangerous thing.

 

Jean blew out another deep sigh, a different kind this time. One with honey pouring out of it that flowed down to his chest. He could relive that cold morning over and over again – and he did even though it'd happened mere hours ago. He could still smell Marco on the stolen sweater he was wearing, he could still feel the way his strong arms had blanketed him against the cold or how his tousled hair had itched his flushed skin when they'd huddled each other. It would be a memory he'd never get tired of.

 

And he still couldn't believe it'd happened. It was something out of daydreams – something that he never would've expected to happen to him. And yet it did. Whenever Marco had shifted his weight or had opened his mouth to speak, Jean had been sure he'd be asking if he were having a heart attack because of how rapid it'd fluttered. Marco had wings, but so did Jean's heart.

 

It scared him how quickly he'd grown addicted to having his friend so close, but he was used to the fear now, and he didn't really mind it since it'd been laced with the promise of more.

 

He knew there would be more. He didn't exactly know how he knew, but something about the way Marco had said they'd hang out until the day he had to leave gave him the impression they'd started a new level of comfort between them. Life jacket be damned, Jean would jump into that ocean of promise if it meant the two could get physically closer.

 

_I'll just pretend I see something in his hair … Throwing my arm around him because I'm tired isn't that big a deal among friends … What would he do if I just held on to him when I got cold? … I'll play with his palms while we read our short stories. I never pay attention to them, anyway._

 

All of those future touches were enough to turn his face and ears warm, but unlike before, he knew he wouldn't feel awkward or hesitant about it any longer. He could get his fill on the simplicity of it because it was _Marco_ and _Marco_ knew how to turn him into a puddle of sap without even lifting a finger. A very nice puddle of sap, one that would always stick to him until he left for vacation.

 

Jean wasn't looking forward to the end of the third week as much as he thought he would, and not because of the secret he was keeping from him – he trusted Marco's word that it wasn't serious – but because he'd be gone for an entire week. Seven straight days. No communication. Or that's what he was guessing since the boy would be miles and miles away with poor cellular signal. He was going to miss him.

 

 _I'll make sure to let him know that once he's back_ , Jean thought to himself, feeling embarrassed by his own intentions. Oh, Marco wasn't the only one with secrets he wanted to share.

 

"Thinking of your boyfriend again, are we?"

 

"Hm? Yeah … ."

 

Jean's head snapped towards his mother so quickly his neck popped. Her laughter waved through the car as a deep groan followed her sing-song voice. Her son was an airhead.

 

" _Amoureux_ , don't be embarrassed. You don't have to tell me for me to know."

 

Humiliated by his own tongue, Jean stared out the window. They were already parked on their driveway and he had no clue for how long now.

 

"What do you think you know, mom?" He dared to ask, regretting it as soon as her smile grew.

 

"Well, that you still like Marco, of course. And that you two—"

 

"I didn't _actually_ want to know!"

 

Jean launched himself out of the car, pacing towards the front door before he remembered they had groceries in the back. He couldn't believe how easily his mother had found him out – no, she'd _cheated_. She knew she could wiggle anything out of him if he was light years deep in thought, almost in the same way you could get the truth out of a drunk or sleeping person.

 

With his dignity quickly hitting on low, he waited by the trunk for his tauntingly slow mother to pop it open. He carried everything himself, allowing her to take her time in locking the car.

 

"Why are you being so jumpy, honey? It's nothing to be shameful about," She liked to make things hard for him. The bags were heavy, his cheeks were burning and yet she still went into unlocking the front door with sloth movements, "I think it's adorable that you're an item with your elementary love."

 

" … Love? Together? Wait, you don't really think we're b-boyfriends, do you?"

 

She gently pushed him forwards when the door cried opened, "Now, Jean, if you like him and he likes you, why wouldn't I think you're a couple? Isn't that how it works or am I missing something here?"

 

Her eyes questioned him all the way into the kitchen and further still when she began taking out their purchases. Jean lamely lingered, waiting to come up with a clever response that'd dismiss what he didn't want her knowing, "Yeah, actually you are. You're missing _a lot_. I might—I might feel a certain way for him, but that doesn't mean, you know, that he feels the same or that you should assume he does."

 

 _Way to go loser, you just told her exactly what you didn't want her to know … Oh, who am I kidding – definitely not_ her.

 

"I am not assuming anything."

 

"Ugh, mom—“

 

"Don't 'ugh, mom' me, Jeanbo. I know what I know because of my experiences."

 

"What experiences? It took you five years to know a man liked you!"

 

" … Even so," She paused, thinking that maybe she was bringing her son's hopes up for no reason, "if he doesn't like you then that's his loss. You're a handsome young man with many good qualities."

 

"You made me, you're supposed to say that."

 

"That's not true."

 

"So, you _didn't_ make me?"

 

"Jokes only mask how you truly feel, I know you, _cher_."

 

Jean slouched, pretending he was more upset than he really was so he could get away with staying up in his room for the remainder of the evening. But in the back of his self-torturing mind, he wondered what his mother had seen in Marco to make her think he liked him just the same.

 

_Maybe-Maybe he does like … me, maybe that's what the big secret is about. It would make sense to tell me before he leaves. I'd do the same thing in his place._

 

"Argh!" Jean caught himself before he got too wrapped up in the conspiracy, turning to run upstairs before she could see his tomato face, "I'm going to go do homework!"

 

"You did your homework last night, remember? You were right here in the living room," His mother called after him. She really liked to call him out on his bullshit.

 

"I mean, _finish_ homework. I'm going to finish—I didn't do some of it … I'll be down later!"

 

Caught not once, but twice. Jean was beginning to feel like there was no point in hiding anything from her ever again. She could read him like an open book, a very short book with five pages and with only one word on each of those said pages. He was something she could memorize and recite whenever she pleased, she knew everything about him and how he was feeling even when she wasn't present. Probably. Mothers were the closest thing to magic he'd ever witnessed.

 

Mothers and love.

 

Jean made himself into a pancake on his bedroom floor, wishing science could explain why the only thing your mind wanted to think about when you had feelings for someone was them and their stupid face. And the sound of their voice, and the way they moved, and the dumb things you'd done together. Everything. It was no wonder his mom saw Marco when she looked at him, he was all that he could think of.

 

But that was fine for now, because maybe that's what high school romance was, maybe it was the first taste of something irrationally strong. And if you're lucky, it'll be the only kind of love you know.

 

"Me? In love? No way." Jean shook his head against the carpet, slightly burning the skin behind his neck, "Just because it's been, like ten years since I've liked him doesn't mean I like him _that_ much. Ha! I could live through these three weeks without seeing him and end up totally fine … _Certainement bien, pas de probléme._."

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

He did not end up fine, and it did become a problem.

 

The first of the three weeks had been the only easy one. Jean hadn't seen much of Marco, though, except for during school. And when he did catch up to him that Monday, his face had boiled at the memory of kissing him on his back. They'd been clumsy around one another for a while, but they were different now and soon it was swiped under the rug – out of sight but not forgotten.

 

As the days had dwindled by, Jean had noticed they hadn't met up not even once. He understood his friend had other responsibilities – like family, work, his martial arts class and everything in between. He understood that well, but there had been a doubter whispering in his ear that Marco was avoiding him on purpose.

 

And yet, the uncertain voice hadn't been loud or reasonable enough anymore and so it'd done very little damage on Jean's guilt or anxiousness because of, well, because of Marco himself. Just because they hadn't physically seen one another, it didn't mean they hadn't talked. And they always were – through messaging, through social media, through late phone calls. Always connected one way or the other.

 

Jean missed his face, he could admit that maddening fact to himself. It usually announced itself whenever he'd park at the school's parking lot in the dark, cold mornings. His heart would never fail to sputter and his breath hitch when he'd find Marco yawning by his Tahoe waiting for _him_. They'd exchange sleepy hello's, sticking side by side as they'd make their way towards the old building.

 

Sometimes while they walked, their frozen hands would brush and Jean would never fail to notice how neither would make any effort into giving the other extra space so the accident wouldn't happen again. Trying to avoid the kid with the guitar strapped on his back? Here, let the back of my hand feel your knuckles. A girl bumped into you? Well, my pinky bumped into your thumb because of it! Jean wanted to think more of the gestures, but he was well aware that Marco wouldn't be the type to be bothered by it from anyone.

 

And despite the week going by dryly, like how he'd jinxed it, they'd finally had time to be together on Saturday. Marco's shift at work had started at a later hour and since Jean woke up near the eight AM for his jog, he'd asked if the other wanted to join him on his run. But being the scardy cat that he was, Jean had asked him at dawn and not the night before when he'd been told the news of his shift change. He'd been too afraid to get an answer but had hoped to get one all the same.

 

 _Sure!_ , had come the quick text message. He'd never ran so quickly to another person's house before, he'd never enjoyed an hour long run that much before, either.

 

The second week had turned out to be a lot harder than the first. And in this week, they actually _had_ seen each other more. On Monday, Jean had paid him a visit at work, ordering funnel cake and hot chocolate. He'd eaten so slowly, he hadn't wanted to stop watching the way Marco looked in his uniform – no matter how ugly the colors were. He'd worn a tight yellow shirt that exposed those pretty tattoos, a dark gray apron that did little to hide the muscles on his chest and even tighter pants. They'd been Khaki's that fit snug around his thighs.

 

Dinner _and_ a show, hot damn. Marco had looked like a work of art. The dewy sweat on his face, the pinks on his cheeks, the tooth rotting smile he gave to entering customers – just anything Marco did, Jean couldn't have wanted to stare at anyone else or _been_ anywhere else. But he'd had to, because eventually his food disappeared and so he had had to disappear with it.

 

Tuesday, they hadn't seen one another, but they'd gone over vocabulary words once Marco got home from the gym. He'd barely passed their last quiz and fear of losing his luck in the next one, he'd begged for help – not that he'd needed to. Jean would've hopped on that train without him even suggesting it in the first place. The only reason he hadn't was because he was aware of Marco's business. They'd stayed up past one in the morning that night, knowing fully well they both needed to wake up a mere five hours later. But they never once brought that fact up.

 

Wednesday and Thursday had been reserved to be their fifteen minute parking lot picnic days. Mike, the chef of Marco's work place, had seen how much Jean had savored the funnel cake the other day and had made him more. They'd been experimental ones that he wanted an opinion on, and the boys had shared it together inside of Jean's cold Jetta. The dessert hadn't remained warm, but it was the only place Marco could've kept them if he'd wanted them to stay fresh thanks to the freezing temperatures.

 

Stale locker funnel cake that reeked of school hadn't sounded too appealing to the either of them.

 

"It's too sweet," Marco had said when they'd been in his car, mouth full of chocolate, "but it's better than the jam one from yesterday."

 

"You say like it's a bad thing. There's nothing wrong with being too sweet."

 

"Sure there is."

 

"Yeah? Like what?"

 

"You can get sick."

 

Jean had watched how the boy made out of sugar had left him their last nice chunky piece of pastry, "Guess I'll get sick then."

 

And Friday. Finally Friday, Jean had been looking forward to it since Marco had mentioned earlier in their second period that they were having better specials at his work. Big plates, little money – meaning he could stay well passed an hour without looking like an idiot for eating one bite per five minutes.

 

But plans rarely ever work out. On his way home from school, one of Marco's wheel's had popped. He'd had to take an emergency trip to a mechanic, who hadn't had his brand of rubber and had sent him off to another. Middle schoolers and adults were freeing themselves of their prison at the same time and soon enough, three PM had turned to seven with Marco having to call in and tell his boss he wasn't going to be able to make it.

 

Jean could've still gone to the restaurant and eaten, but it wouldn't have been the same without Marco there since that was the main reason to him going. He couldn't bring himself to say that when Marco had called and asked how the food was tasting. Instead, Jean had lied and said he'd passed out after a shower and decided not to go after all.

 

But the third week had proved to be the hardest of them all. There'd been no end to it. The days had dragged on and on, the minutes had felt like years and the hours decades.

 

They hadn't been able to see much of each other during these final days either. From accompanying his mother to her yearly breast examination (not that he'd minded, he knew she needed the emotional support) to having shit weather where it'd rained ice all day long – the chance had never come up. It was like the universe had wanted him to starve for being a liar to himself.

 

He'd felt cheated in some way, but there really wasn't much Jean should've complained about. They _still_ saw each other everyday at school and they _still_ messaged one another after. But that hadn't stopped him from feeling like something was off, like if something was missing and it'd left him frustrated and cranky.

 

Now it was Friday again, the last of the week and Jean felt mentally and physically exhausted. The last bell of the day had rung five minutes ago, not that he'd payed much attention to time anymore, it had turned into an abstract concept during his month of expectations. He was so tired of himself that he'd left the classroom like one of the morning zombies.

 

He'd also left Marco behind to talk to Dr. Zoe instead of waiting for him. It was probably about their midterm practice questions – it'd been the third time this week that he'd stayed. He didn't know how Marco could do it, his own brain felt fried around this time of the year and the pressure of exams hadn't even settled in yet.

 

Jean yawned as he fiddled with the lock on his locker. He rarely used the thing, but recently they've been needing the banged up textbooks for their anatomy lessons. It sucked. Everything sucked. Tests sucked the most, no, _studying_ sucked the most. Tests only lasted an hour or so, it was quick, something you get over with in one day. But studying? He knew kids who studied _everyday_. He only liked doing it when the teachers made it into a jeopardy game and you got to compete with others.

 

_I'm so worn out I'm thinking of school while I'm in school. Shit, I'll sleep on these dirty floors, I don't care._

 

"Jean!"

 

He was so drained he could hear Marco's voice.

 

"Hey, horseface, what are you doing!"

 

"No, not a dream. Fucking nightmare," Jean grumbled to himself, finally getting the locker to open. He turned to find Eren running towards him, a couple of books tucked underneath an arm. He could already hear his question before he'd even asked it.

 

"That your locker?" Eren asked, looking inside as if he'd find proof saying otherwise.

 

"Yeah, why?"

 

"Think I can leave my stuff in there? My locker's downstairs in the opposite direction. Too much walking and all that."

 

"Whatever," He agreed with a roll of his eyes, moving aside to give him space, "just hurry up, 'm tryna go home and pass out."

 

He heard a crunch of an old and forgotten chip bag as Eren began placing his books inside, "You're not gonna wait for Marco today? He's still with the teacher."

 

"We don't always—it's not like we _plan_ to go home together everyday. It just happens."

 

“Right.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

"Remember how you used to hate him?" Eren said like nothing, looking for a spot for his second textbook. Jean knew he wasn't trying to start a fight, but boy did he know how to get on his nerves with those stupid questions, "And now you're like two balls in a sack."

 

"First of all, _gross_. Second of all, fuck off. And third of all, I didn't _hate_ him," He doesn't remember using that word exactly, "And what's your point anyways?"

 

"Don't really have one. But it does look weird not seeing you two together. Funny how things change."

 

"I guess."

 

"Yeah, so hey," Eren grunted, forcefully shoving his book inside even though there was clearly something blocking it, "just out of curiosity – since you're so easily admitting you're always around one another – are you guys dating?"

 

"Ha?"

 

"Or are you dating someone else or … ?"

 

“So there was a reason you asked,” Jean huffed, too weary to feel the anger touch the surface of his energy, "Who wants to know?"

 

"Jeremy asked if you were single," With another grunt, he finally found himself some space, "Jeremy from soccer … the one who got kicked off the ream second day of practice for punching the water boy. Remember him?"

 

A better question would be, how could he forget? The boy was a walking slop, puking up words that boosted his own ego by hammering down on others. He had a horrible temper – not that Jean was one to talk – but he was _mean_. On _purpose_. Sure his six-foot self was hot, but his physical attraction meant nothing when he was so rotten on the inside.

 

Plus, Jean had caught him at lunch one day digging up his nose and smearing its contents on a 'friend's' unguarded book bag when he thought no one was looking. That'd sealed the douche bag deal for him.

 

"You better have told him I'm not available," Jean snapped, afraid that he'd get hit on in the near future, "I'm _not_ interested in one of your nasty friends."

 

Eren stepped away from the locker and shrugged, "I'm not your spokesman, you tell him you're not available. And he's not my friend either, he just tags along with some of us guys sometimes. I don't think he really has a lot of friends."

 

"Hm. I wonder why. Look, if you see him around, you lie and tell him I'm taken already – for real, Eren. We've got midterms to study and I don't have time for shits like him."

 

"Since when have you cared about your grades?"

 

"Since fuck you, that's when."

 

"Alright, alright, damn! I'm leaving, your real boyfriend's here."

 

"My what?" Jean followed Eren's line of sight, already knowing who'd he see. And almost immediately his mood lifted from bitter to sugar high. There was no way he could have hid the way his chest puffed at the happy Bott who was walking their way, a grin – _that_ grin – the one that made his knees weak, was planted onto his freckled cheeks, "He's not—He's not my … "

 

"What's up, Marco?"

 

Eren had already left his side to go greet Marco halfway through his poor excuse of a denial. He saw them exchange handshakes and give longer spoken greetings. Jean would've joined them if he wasn't so brain dead where he stood, grasping onto his anatomy book and realizing for the hundredth time this past month that it was getting harder to breath when Marco was around. He'd seen him ten minutes ago in class and yet here he was, turning him into a shy school boy just by seeing him be himself and nothing more.

 

_But that doesn't mean I'm in love._

 

His toes nervously wiggled inside his shoes when Eren started walking away, telling Marco to enjoy his break and to keep him updated about his father. And then, with a friendly goodbye, he was gone – him and maybe even the whole second floor of the school for all Jean cared. It's what it felt like when Marco's eyes settled onto his, still smiling, but with a switch. There was something different about the way they gleamed when it was just the two of them.

 

"Hey, I thought you would've been gone by now."

 

"No, still here. Just putting my shit away."

 

Marco watched him as he turned his focus back on his locker, "I'm glad I caught you."

 

"And why's that?" Jean asked, pretending he was going through his things as Marco leaned against the locker next to his. His sweater sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, loosely holding onto his black jacket against his abdomen and showing off the feathers of his wings. The tempting bastards. Jean hated that he looked handsome doing something as simple as leaning against objects.

 

"I have news. Good and bad, which do you want to hear first?"

 

_Oh right, I forgot about my shit luck these past few weeks._

 

Jean didn't let his unease show, he'd already guessed they weren't going to hang out today since he was working, but that shouldn't be considered bad news. It was a normal thing, an expected thing.

 

"Hit me with the bad."

 

Marco crossed his arms, weakening him further, "I'm not leaving on Monday. I'm leaving Saturday … tomorrow. That way I can come back next Friday rather than Sunday. Mom said I'll be too tired to go back to school if I leave late and since it's the end of the school year I can't miss too many days."

 

"And the good news?" Jean gnawed on his lip, ignoring the acidic drop of his stomach as he rearranged his textbooks. Just because he knew what'd be coming, it didn't mean he was prepared for the feeling.

 

"The good news is that I'm free. Today."

 

"What happened to work?"

 

"Nothing—just … no work. No work, no gym. No nothing."

 

"Hm,” Jean thought that odd.

 

"Yup."

 

"Ok."

 

Marco ran his thumb across the hood of his jacket, "Yeah, so, if you want—if you already don't have plans, do you want to come to my place? Or we could go to yours instead! Or somewhere else, it doesn't have to be a house—"

 

Closing his locker with a gentle snap after managing to squeeze his book inside, Jean hushed him. Did this guy really think he had other plans or would say no?

 

"Yeah, we can go to your place. I don't mind, I haven't seen your family in a long while."

 

"Ok, but my mom won't—her and Micah won't be there. They won't be, uh, home."

 

If Jean wasn't hot before, he was now. He could feel it growing on his face and he didn't even know why. It wasn't like Marco had asked him to come over _because_ his house would be empty. Hell! Jean's house was always empty when they hanged out. But the way he'd said it made him feel like there were other motives, "That's cool, want me to bring movies?"

 

"You wouldn't happen to have any of the _Saw_ ones, would you?"

 

"Of course not, I'm not tryna cut years off my life."

 

Marco laughed with tension releasing from his shoulders, making his voice echo through the corridors and softly through Jean. It caused him to straighten up and start walking down the hall before any other useless thoughts could barge into his messy head, but it was hard not to let that happen when Marco met his pace. It was hard because although there was no one else around, he suck close to him, close enough to have their knuckles touch now that he'd moved his jacket to the other hand.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

Jean looked himself over in the downstairs bathroom mirror. He preferred this room over the the one upstairs because this one had all the light bulbs working. It made his skin look healthy, fresh and bright – something he wished it'd always look like.

 

He studied his clothes and shoes again, though there was nothing new there, they were the same as when he'd left school. Next he moved on to his hair. Nothing new there either, it was as misplaced and mishandled as always even though he'd received a cut not too long ago, but it was alright enough to not catch unwanted attention.

 

Moving along, he searched for bats in caves, crusties in his eyes, smelly armpits and finally, stinky breath. Done and done. All he had left to do was moisturize his skin and lips – the two most neglected parts of his body. Thank goodness only one of them had managed to crack and swell on his drive home.

 

And it was a good thing that he was burning some energy before leaving. Jean was having a hard time keeping his hands from staying still or from keeping his mouth shut, causing him to sing hushed and improvised songs to the empty house. He wished his mom were there when he'd arrived, he really could've used a pep talk – or any talk for that matter. Something that could've settled his nerves so he wouldn't feel so shamelessly desperate to spend time with Marco.

 

Calling Sasha momentarily crossed his mind, but he wasn't ready for that yet.

 

Leaving the restroom now with his face and lips sparkling with Vaseline, Jean traded his book bag full of books for a book bag full of movies – all either drama or comedy – as he headed out the door.

 

Outside, it was a little colder than when they'd left school, even if he'd only been home for about half an hour, but with his thick layer of moisturizer Jean couldn't be fazed. Not on his face, at least.

 

"T-The car, I'll take the car," He said aloud, legs trembling. He didn't know if it was because of the wind or because of his excitement, but it was annoying him either way because he was nervous.

 

And he knew _exactly_ why he felt that way. The two boys hadn't had time to laze around in Jean's room like they used to. He'd almost forgotten how normal it felt to be unsupervised, so now his heart was pounding at the echo of Marco's words telling him they'd be all alone, no adults around whatsoever. It'd be the first time in almost a month, and unlike before, there was the question of if they'd be cuddling like they'd done on his bed.

 

_No! No, of course not. Marco was probably still half drunk when he woke up. That's why he held on to me, and it was cold, it made sense to create more heat … Yeah, that's what it was. Nothing's gonna happen at his place._

 

Feeling slightly down at the thought, the ride to Marco's house went by as calmly as Jean could get. He passed neighbors burning leaves outside before turning right, feeling a twitch on his foot the second he entered the others neighborhood. But he was still eager and giddy as he drove down the street, just seeing him was enough to turn him into an enthusiastic kid.

 

He watched blue houses, brown houses, a purple house and beige drift out of his view until he saw the one belonging to Marco. It wasn't hard to miss, his was the only house surrounded by an army of giant trees, almost like if they were there for protecting them. Once Jean was parked on the curb of the house – book bag in hand – he took in a deep breath and went out to brace the weather and what was awaiting him inside.

 

And before he could fully dry the sweat on his palms, or prepare himself, the door down the driveway swung open and there, dressed in a plain white shirt and gray sweat pants, appeared the object of his affections.

 

_Oh come on, that's not fair. At least look bad in casual clothing._

 

Jean stiffly ran the rest of the way, not wanting to let the cold air in too much. He momentarily wondered if this was how awkward Marco felt when he prematurely greeted him all those other times.

 

"I guess I should've told you to dress comfortably," Marco said from the side, inspecting him from head to toe as Jean tried not to pant from such a short distance, "Kinda thought you would've came in a onesie."

 

He would've laughed if it didn't make so much sense. Jean was lazy, if he had one, he would've done it. He would've came in boxers and a hoodie if it meant minimal effort, and yet, he'd wanted to remain dressed nicely in his clothes for _this_ guy, who was shooting him a teasing grin that made his arm hairs feel like they had warm static.

 

"Do you wanna borrow something?" Marco asked when he didn't get a response, shutting the door behind them.

 

"You're kinda bigger than me."

 

"I know, but that didn't stop you from stealing my sweater, now did it? I'll be right back, make yourself comfortable."

 

"Alright," Jean muttered as Marco made his way up the museum staircase. There was no way he could feel comfortable yet. He'd only been here once before and the experience had been as comfortable as having the pricks and needles feeling on your foot. From recalling dreadful flashbacks to having his mom asking his old bully to look after him, he was hoping today _would_ bring better memories that he could associate with 'comfort'.

 

Not knowing what to do with himself, Jean dropped his book bag on to the floor and sauntered over to the restroom. With a flicker of the light, he sat on the closed toilet lid and tried to clear up his mind. He wasn't exactly worried about anything – he knew he was safe, they were only going to watch movies after all. Everything was going to be fine, nothing to worry about. In fact, he'd made sure not to bring any romance movies just for his sanity's sake.

 

Right. Everything was fine, everything would _be_ fine. Even if he _did_ have an unbearable desire to skip through the break so he could tell Marco just how much he thinks of him or wants to hold his hand all the time because of the crushing feelings he held for the boy, it didn't mean anything. Brash and Impatient are his middle names but it's fine. Nothing. To. Worry. About.

 

"Jean?"

 

"Oh, hey," He quickly said in surprise, looking up to find Marco watching him, concerned with a pile of clothes on his arms.

 

"What're you doing?"

 

"Waiting on you."

 

"You feeling ok? You've been acting kind of funny lately. If you're coming down with something … you can go home, it's alright."

 

"No! No, I'm fine!" He shot up, snatched the clothes and slammed the door a little too hard on his face, "J-Just play a movie while I change. I threw my bag near the door."

 

There was a sound of approval on the other side that allowed Jean to compose himself. He wasn't about to ruin the one and only day they'd been able to be together. Friends or otherwise, Jean was going to allow Marco to enjoy the time they had so he could go visit his father without having to worry about if he was unnecessarily mad or sick. He couldn't do that to him, Jean knew he was already silently stressing himself out over the long car ride awaiting him and his brother.

 

And by the time he'd had on a pair of sweats that bundled heavily along his feet and a long sleeved shirt that extended past his arms, Jean felt like himself again. Which meant he still felt entirely too hyper for his own good, but that was a good thing since he usually slept like a bear after hard emotional labors. Today would've been one of those days if it weren't for Marco.

 

Once he exited the restroom, he sang himself a mantra of deceptions as motivation, turning the corner to the living room before getting popped with bucket loads of butterflies.

 

The television had a blue picture on it, frozen with the pause symbol on the corner of the screen, indicating that Marco hadn't wanted him miss even the commercials. And on the sofa was Marco himself with one – not two, but _one_ – blanket for them to share, and a lime green bowl on his lap that was filled with Halloween candy that Jean thought he'd be finished with by now.

 

"You gave me a lot," Marco said, as if he'd read his mind, "Want some?"

 

A crooked grin bloomed on his face, "I would've taken some even if you hadn't offered."

 

“Sure you would.”

 

“What, you don't believe me?”

 

“No, not really. You're lots of things, but rude isn't one of them. Sometimes.”

 

“Thanks, I think.”

 

Marco giggled, “Jean?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Why are you still standing there?”

 

“Oh right.”

 

He swallowed as he made his way onto the couch, happy his voice sounded strong and stable. But he didn't really feel so stable as he slid into the blanket, feeling the body heat his friend had already created. It was nice, though, as it always was when he was with Marco. As much as he freaked out because of him, his emotions settled whenever they were actually close. Kind of like the hesitation before and after a shower, but once inside, you never want to leave.

 

"What movie did you pick?" Jean asked, keeping to his side of the couch while Marco stayed in his. As long as Marco wasn't uncomfortable, he didn't mind the distance so much.

 

" _Stand By Me_ , it's been a long time since I've seen this one. I don't think Micah was even born yet when I watched it. So how are the clothes?"

 

"The clothes? They feel like clothes, what do you want me to say?" He joked, eyeing the bowl.

 

"It's the smallest sizes I could find. I was going to give you something of Micah's, but I didn't know how you'd feel about that."

 

"I like yours."

 

There was a second of silence that didn't go unnoticed. Jean felt regret for being too honest, but he wasn't too sure he'd ever had control over what came out of his mouth. No use in complaining about it now.

 

"O-Ok, good. I'm going to start the movie now."

 

Jean nodded, "Mm, hey, could you pass the candy?"

 

"Sure.”

 

Marco didn't look at him when he handed him the bowl, fingers staying dangerously close to the edge of the container and making Jean feel positive it was going to slip out of his grasp before he could catch it. But it didn't slip, it made its way safely to his side.

 

That's when he realized he wasn't the only one who'd been acting funny. Well, not until now Marco hadn't shown any real signs of unease. Throughout the whole weeks he was the same happy, smiley Marco – always there to fill in the silence with talk about something new since he was always so busy. But now he was quiet and the air around him was strained. He looked almost afraid of something.

 

Or someone. Jean knew he wasn't trying to hide his agitation because they were alone, he'd never do something that he didn't agree with. But meeting his father after almost a decade, now _that'd_ scare just about any abandoned son. And he hated that he had no idea how to help him through it.

 

_Coming soon to DVD and VCR ..._

 

The sound of the ancient commercial trickled in his ears, catching his attention for a minute before he looked at the candy. Shiny wrappings telling him it was mint chocolate made his mouth water, they were his favorite – or any chocolate for that matter, but if anything was going to make him stop bouncing his foot on the floor where the blanket couldn't reach, mint choco it was.

 

"Can I have all the mint patties?" Jean asked, already plucking them out despite not having an answer.

 

"Yeah, just leave me some candy corn if you take some of that, too."

 

He turned to Marco, offended, "Don't tell me you actually like that shit?"

 

"I do. Why? What's wrong with it?"

 

"What do you mean what's wrong with it? Next you're probably going to tell me you like fruit in your salad."

 

"You mean like raspberries and tangerines? I do happen to like them."

 

Jean shook his head, "Me and your taste buds need to have a serious talk."

 

"Have you even tried it, Jean? They're not so bad."

 

He ripped open his candy as the commercial changed, thinking that maybe small conversation was the best he could do for his friend. It certainly did him good whenever he was torturing himself with negative thoughts, "Tried what? The salad or the killer candy of the corn?"

 

"Both … Mr. Dramatic."

 

"No to the salad, a hell yes to the corn. 'S gross, Marco, you shouldn't eat that crap."

 

"Well, I'm going to eat it all of it then, and there won't be any left for you," He heard him mumble not so quietly.

 

Jean felt his weight on the cushion, watching him picking out his nasty triangles from the bowl, "Would you put them in your salad and eat it?"

 

"Would it gross you out?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Then yes," Marco grinned, not meeting his eye. But it did earn him a light kick.

 

Which he returned to Jean. The cheeky dork, he missed him already.

 

"Hey, wanna spar? The commercials are still running and I'm pretty sure I could end this in about … mm … two seconds. Plus, you chickened out on the last one, so you kinda owe me."

 

"Uhm."

 

"You're right, that's too long. I'll end it in one second."

 

Marco's cheeks flushed pink in the room. It could've blended in with the brightness of the setting sun by how rosy the the two were, but Jean had seen it so many times, he could be behind a wall and he'd know just how red Marco would be from ears to cheeks. Or it could really be the light, it didn't make any sense for him to blush by a simple offer. This one had pure intentions unlike the last time.

 

"No fighting. I don't think you'd be able to handle it.”

 

“Oh and why not?” Jean felt the tickle of the sugar burn down his throat.

 

“You're not that old, Jean, did you forget I know your weak spot?"

 

"That's – That's a myth."

 

"Oh, really? One blow and I'll have you shaking on the floor."

 

_Jesus Christ, what a way to phrase that._

 

"O-Ok, truce."

 

He was grateful that he'd finished picking his candy by then and was retreating, because he too became a burning muddle of skin. But he welcomed it this time, enjoying the warmth like if he were basking in sunlight. He'd take this over stiff silence with Marco any day of the week. Besides, Jean wouldn't be Jean and Marco wouldn't be Marco if they weren't always embarrassing one another.

 

The television popped up the menu of the movie, quickly disappearing with a flick of Marco's finger on the remote and almost instantly Jean's impatience came back. He didn't actually want to watch any movies, he wanted to talk and listen to Marco talk about anything, no matter how boring. Movies were for awkward first dates so you could have something to talk about after, and he was kicking himself over the fact that it was his own fault for even suggesting to bring them. Now he had to suffer through the whole damn thing before Marco could tell him his secretive news.

 

He didn't know how long that would take, but for Marco, he decided to keep his mouth busy with chocolate. One after the other they vanished and the pile of silver wrappings grew on his lap. He'd had to criss-cross his legs on the sofa so they would stay in one place, happy to find that Marco was also shifting in his seat. It was a good sign, it was a sign of solace.

 

Marco brought his knees up to the cushion, facing them towards Jean's direction as one of his hands grabbed an unsuspecting pillow from behind. It was an innocent movement, but the innocence left when Jean caught sight of the tattoos. They weren't even trying to hide this time since Marco's shirt was short sleeved, unlike his – it wasn't exactly warm downstairs either, he didn't know why he was wearing something like that.

 

"What's wrong?" Marco whispered, catching him staring.

 

Jean quickly unwrapped another mint patty and popped it into his mouth, “Nothing.”

 

"Want some water?"

 

" … Yes, please."

 

He almost cried at the loss of heat when Marco stood up, but it didn't last very long. He came back with a bottle for each of them in a matter of seconds, almost like if he'd had them prepared already. Jean didn't fail to notice how he sat a little closer, knees going up again and touching one of his now. But it didn't mean anything because the couch _was_ small and Marco was tall and thick … and he knew how to fill up his pajamas nicely around the shoulders and legs and thighs despite having on sweatpants.

 

A quick few gulps of his water did the trick to get Jean to focus back on the movie. This time he told himself to keep his attention there unless he wanted to start drooling – or worse – ruin their pleasant silence with more questions due to his gawking.

 

"You ever seen _Kangaroo Jack_? Jean asked, screwing pleasant silence out the window.

 

"Yeah, why?"

 

"That's him."

 

Marco pointed at the TV, "That one?"

 

"No, the chubby one."

 

"No way, really?"

 

"Mhm."

 

"Oh yeah," He said, squinting, "it does kind of look like him. How'd you know?"

 

"I read movie trivia."

 

Marco's chest huffed with what sounded like laughter, but he said nothing of it and Jean decided he didn't want to know what he thought of that. And like how he should've done in the first place, he kept his mouth shut for the better half of the movie without ever moving from his seat – only eating away at his melting chocolate while his legs went numb.

 

He'd already seen this movie a dozen times, it was a classic, but it was having a hard time at keeping his attention.

 

Whenever the engine of a car drove by the house, he would look over at Marco to see if he recognized the sound – if he would say it belonged to his mother – but he never looked worried. Jean had meant it when he said he wanted to see his family again, they were intimidating, but he knew all of his friend's parents. He didn't want Marco to remain as an exception, so it made him curious as to where they'd gone off to so late in the evening and why they'd left the not so goody-goody son behind.

 

He wanted to ask, but he knew better. Marco was really into the movie now, not even bothering to eat his gross candy. Which was a good thing, he guessed. He'd only bought the ugly things to make it look like he had received a good amount of candy from his neighborhood.

 

 _I bet he smells like that junk,_ , Jean thought, jealous of the sweets that'd traveled into his mouth.

 

Another car, another skeptical glance. This time he didn't bother looking away with the sun as gone as it was. There was a dark blue afterglow outside that stained the walls of the living room, but soon the color would be drained from the room and he wouldn't be able to see Marco anymore unless he thought LED TV lights were good enough – which he didn't.

 

He liked his friend's natural skin colors and the way they radiated when he was doused in real light. Healthy, fresh and bright – everything he wished he had, but didn't mind seeing on him. Marco could be his own sunset, Jean knew it, he was beautiful in profile showing him a glimpse of a smile unaware that he was being watched. The sun never knew when it was being watched.

 

But you could show Jean a picture of him puking on his lawn and he'd still say he was still pretty damn beautiful. Snot nosed and everything.

 

Jean watched his square jaw bite down, tensed like if he'd realized he had an audience.

 

"Alright, spill it, Jean," Marco said, facing him with an unidentifiable expression, “What's going on?”

 

Feeling like a creep at getting caught yet again and not knowing what to do about it, he retracted his cold toes from the floor where he'd tried to stretch them out, causing his water bottle to roll somewhere, "Ah, just feelin' chilly is all. Don't mind me, just watch the dang movie."

 

He didn't know what he'd said that caught the other to gulp, but if his comment hadn't came out of his own mouth, he would've thought someone had asked Marco to strip naked. His brown eyes went wide and darted to the empty space between them. But almost as quickly as his panicked expression had appeared, it was gone the next second, replaced by a devoted smile that could melt any fires or start them if he pleased.

 

“You're cold?”

 

“Yeah. Sorry,” Jean didn't know why he was apologizing.

 

“For what, dummy? Why didn't you say anything sooner instead of just staring at me?”

 

“I wasn't—I don't know. And I'm not a dummy.”

 

"Come here," Marco said, opening his arms and ignoring his last statement.

 

At first, Jean thought he was offering the entire blanket thanks to his kind nature, but then the dots connected. The two of them in a bottom bunk, waking up in the early morning … Jean whining about the cold and how they needed to stay huddled together, Marco willingly sharing his body. God, this boy really was too nice. He was offering him another free cuddle to keep him warm even though that's the last thing Jean would have expected to receive today, but to be fair he really was dense.

 

"You sure?"

 

Marco only nodded, switching his sitting position to where his back laid against the arm rest. That way, they'd be able to stretch their legs to the other side once they were in a good spot. Jean hadn't known it, but he'd been waiting for this – this _physical_ closeness since the last time they'd had it and he was noticing that maybe Marco did, too.

 

He was watching him hard, but with care as he slide his way over after placing his wrappings in the candy bowl, ready to be taken in by him and finally, finally, _finally_ be together in the way they'd both craved to. And when Jean's head landed on the firmness of Marco's tummy, he felt all the tension ghost out of his tired body with a deep, long exhale. No more jitters, no more pretending.

 

His arm wrapped around solid hip and one of his feet hooked around Marco's ankle like a tree vine. This was better – a _hundred_ times better – than what they've had in all these three weeks. But it was also worse, because Jean didn't know if he could survive another month without it. Or however long it'll be until they could do something like this again.

 

"Better?" Marco asked from above, fixing the blanket to fit around Jean's shoulders.

 

He moaned in response, not caring if it sounded wrong or misplaced, he just wanted to show how cozy he was. Besides, it was the only reasonable answer to give that'd truly show how he felt. Marco hadn't seemed to mind it either, he laughed at him and left his right arm to rest onto Jean's back. He felt so pampered.

 

With half his face merrily squished against him, the boys went back to watching the movie. For a while, they'd behaved – staying still and giving their undivided attention to the actors, but it hadn't lasted very long. Jean would hear the other chuckle and agree with what one of the kids would say every now and then, but eventually he'd also feel the palm of his hand easily massaging his back or coming close to the sensitive spot on his neck.

 

Well, Jean could at least say he'd _tried_ to watch the move, but it didn't seem like Marco wanted him to.

 

He would even doze off for a few minutes before coming back to life at the sound of something dramatic coming from the speakers, burying his head in cotton material and telling himself to stay up. It was pointless being with friends if all he was going to do is spend that time in a different realm.

 

"I like this song,” Jean yawned, putting an effort to fight against Marco's soothing touch.

 

"Me too, it really fits the movie."

 

"I mean, it _is_ the name of it."

 

"I knew that."

 

Jean felt him running along his spine, losing the battle, "Are you, mm, even paying attention to it?"

 

"Of course I am."

 

"I'd guess otherwise," He teased as he closed his eyes, taking in the scent of Marco's shirt and feeling him everywhere. He felt good. He smelled good, too. Like home and peace.

 

Jean's hand – not so stealthily – struggled to search for something on the other side of Marco's torso. And it was Marco who'd found him instead. Jean wanted to look up at him to see if he knew what exactly he was holding onto before he'd freak out and say he thought he was holding onto a giant candy corn, but it felt too right to speak up about it.

 

He didn't want to lose him, and so he wiggled his fingers until they were laced together with a withered set. There was a sigh of relief that he didn't know if it came from him or from Marco. It didn't matter anymore.

 

"Don't worry, I am paying attention. I'm always paying attention."

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

“ _Good morning._ ”

 

“ _Good morning!_ ”

 

“ _Um, how much are they paying you to be here?_ ”

 

Jean heard the gasps of a movie crowd.

 

“ _Ah, excuse me? What is your name, son?_ ”

 

“ _Gerald._ ”

 

“ _Well, Gerald, I think you're afraid._ ”

 

“ _Are you telling us this stuff so we can buy your book? Because I gotta tell ya that if you are, that was some of the worst advice I've ever heard._ ”

 

The crowd made a noise of distaste and he complained with them for different reasons.

 

“ _You see how sad this is?_ ”

 

“ _You want your sister to lose weight? Get off the couch, stop eating Twinkies and maybe go out for field hockey. And you know what, no one ever knows what they want to be when they grow up – you know what it takes a little—a little while to find that out, right Jim? And you_ ”

 

Jean kept his eyes closed, but he knew what the actor was about to say, so he listened.

 

“ _Yeah, you. You sick of some jerks putting your head down the toilet? Well you know what, maybe you should lift some weights or, uh, take a karate lesson and the next time he tries to do it you kick him in the balls._ ”

 

He giggled in his sleep, repeating the last word of the speech before everything around him grew quiet and still again.

 

Unaware by him, the night had ran into lateness outside. The street lamps had turned on hours ago, the neighborhood cars had stopped going out to stores while the night owl's had already arrived at their destination, the birds had finally rested while Love had called the lonely on their phones, whispering to one another in their beds trying to be as quiet as possible as to not wake their family.

 

Almost the same could be said for Marco's house. Any outsider could look at his home and guess the whole family was either gone for the holiday's or resting soundly in their beds, preparing themselves for the hectic shopping soon awaiting them. There was no way they could've guessed the only residents at the moment were puzzles on the sofa, perfectly pieced into each other.

 

Somewhere along the third film, Jean had _really_ fallen asleep. He awoke for the second time, thinking only five minutes had passed since the last, but to his surprise the rolling credits of the movie greeted him in his rouse. He felt an ache in his shoulder and death in a leg. The music sounded familiar, but for the life of him he couldn't put two and two together, his mind hadn't caught up to him just yet.

 

He'd also forgotten how many hours of it they'd stormed through. All he knew was that he wasn't home and that he was being held by someone bigger than him – someone he couldn't quite see. The room had remained in the dark since the beginning and now with the lack of TV light, Jean couldn't tell if Marco was awake or just as passed out as he had been.

 

He could feel his chest slowly rising and falling, rising and falling into a rhythm that could lull him back to unconsciousness, but he didn't know what time it was or when his mother would get back. It'd be mortifying if his family found them laying the way they were because … well, because what kind of explanation could they give? Saying they were just friends sounded like a fake excuse to him too, even though that was the truth.

 

"Finally awake?" Came a low voice above his head. So he was awake.

 

Jean shrugged, meaning to have nodded, and noticed Marco had changed his sitting position to a laying down one. The arm underneath his head _had_ to be drained of blood.

 

"Barely," He croaked, "How long was I out?"

 

"A good hour and thirty minutes."

 

"No way, you should have woken me up," He wished he could see, and for once his wish was granted when the _Donnie Darko_ DVD menu popped up. It was bright with colors that hurt his eyes.

 

"Didn't want to bother you. You were really out of it today."

 

"But you're supposed to bother me, you're leaving tomorrow and all I did was sleep."

 

"It's alright, it wasn't that long of a nap."

 

"To me it was."

 

Marco shifted, laying on to his side as he wrapped an arm over Jean's. He trapped him similar to the way he had when they'd been on his bed, it gave him a protected feeling – a not-even-nuclear-bombs-can-touch-me feeling. Jean nestled into his neck and breathed, too tired to wonder if Marco heard him. In less than a few hours he'll be gone, and taking in as much as he could right now would be the only way he'd survive.

 

“You were saying weird things in your sleep. What were you dreaming about?”

 

“Nothing really,” Jean hugged him, “What was I saying?”

 

“Balls, balls, balls, balls, balls—”

 

“Marco, you're lying!”

 

“I'm not, you know I don't joke like that,” Marco giggled, smoothing him down with a pat, “Were you dreaming about soccer or something?”

 

“No, I told you I didn't dream anything—huh, that's funny. Your first guess was sports rather than … the other type of balls.”

 

One of Marco's legs flexed, like if his body was giving him the answer his mind couldn't figure out, he was probably dead-tired, too, “I didn't even think of that.”

 

“Let's not think about anything, then.”

 

He wanted to fall asleep on him again, he'd give anything for just a couple more minutes of more rest. But talking about body parts while their body parts were mashed together like pillows and blankets, he knew it was a hopeless cause. Still, they remained in the quiet for a while longer, playing with the others clothing to let them know they weren't really going to drift off.

 

"Thanks for coming,” Marco announced in his hair, sounding like he'd been holding it in for too long, “I know I said we'd hang out before I left, but … I didn't think this was how the month was going to go by."

 

"Shit happens. It's no big deal, we're hanging out now."

 

"I know, but—"

 

"Marcooo, it's fine. You know what? I know how you can make it up to me, just—just stay where you are. You don't have to do anything but doing what you're doing right now because it's all … it's all I pretty much want."

 

He was glad he was hiding in the corners of his friend's body, that was almost too honest for him to say out loud. It had to be said, though, keeping it in was proving to be an even bigger challenge. From now on, he'd rather be red faced from saying how he felt rather than blue from forcing it in.

 

“Do you mean that, Jean?”

 

“Y-yeah. I do.”

 

"Hey," Marco whispered, rubbing circles on his back.

 

Jean murmured against his skin, knowing he was being watched. When he didn't get a response, he scooted his head back and froze.

 

It wasn't the first time he'd been so heart-stopping close to Marco's face. The first time had been the day he'd dropped off the Halloween candy, outside in the cold where he first saw those unforgettable sandal slippers. He'd almost made a mistake that day, a huge one that couldn't be taken back. And it was thanks to the freezing wind that'd blown through them that'd stopped him, otherwise he didn't know how differently that night would've ended.

 

But now there was no wind, or fears of being seen by nosy neighbors. It was just him and Marco in a dimly lit living room with nothing but each other. He could see the shine of his knowing eyes reflecting the illuminated wall behind them, and if he looked further down, he'd see his full lips slightly opening and breathing with candy breath that picked up its pace by just a little.

 

You could hide almost anything in the dark, but you don't need eyes to see desire. Jean swallowed once, then twice, before he leaned in and kissed Marco.

 

His palms rested on the others chest as he felt the softness of his skin against his own mouth. They were so warm, so much warmer than Jean could've imagined. And in his sleepy state, the panic didn't settle in until after he felt a gentle hand on the nape of his neck. Marco's breath tickled him when their simple peck broke, but then the hand gave him a careful push and again there were lips taking over his.

 

Only this time, they parted for one another like the way their fingers did when they didn't want to let go just yet. Jean could taste the candy corn remains on him as he grew bolder, taking more of him in, feeling parts of Marco mixing with his that caused his frazzled mind to declare that candy corn was now his favorite flavor. He could drink it off the other body if it meant he'd be able to do it today, tomorrow, always.

 

A small noise escaped Jean's throat when Marco removed his hand to roll them over his shoulders, pressing their chests together as if he wanted to hear the flaps of his heart's wings. It was beating like crazy, his entire body on edge. What little control he did have of his limbs, Jean used it to place his own hands on Marco's hair. He'd always wanted to feel the long waves through his fingers and it was velvety, just like him. Like his lips. Like his embrace.

 

"Jean," Marco crooned, breathless when they separated. He stroked a thumb softly over Jean's wet lips, biting his own to suppress the smile threatening to show his elation.

 

But Jean only growled in response at the loss on his mouth. He hadn't wanted it to stop, it was too quick – he still needed to have a talk with the taste buds on Marco's tongue.

 

“Earth to Jean? You still there?”

 

“I'm … “

 

And just like that, almost as quickly as his urge to kiss him had started, the realization of what he'd done hit him harder than any kick to the gut. Jean shot back to his side of the sofa, horrified with himself and confused out of his mind that he'd had the courage to do that to Marco without the help of alcohol. Purely sober, purely out of greediness.

 

"I'm sorry!" He shouted, too loud for his own ears compared to their hushed noises from before, it was as if he were highlighting his guilt with his words, "I'm sorry, I didn't meant to, Marco!"

 

"You … didn't?"

 

"I mean, I _did_ , but—"

 

The fire in his face turned to ice when the front door rattled. Neither of them had paid any attention to the one familiar engine that'd rumbled and stopped outside the driveway, and neither had even heard the jingle of keys or muffled voices complaining about the time or weather before they'd opened the door.

 

Jean stood, tripping his way over to the entrance and wanting to face Marco's mother more than him. Her eyes screamed when she saw him – Micah a curious onlooker from close behind.

 

"Hello," Jean felt his hands shaking as he moved to grab his shoes, "I was just leaving right now. Had lots of fun watching—watching movies with Marco. Thanks for having me. Marco, I'll see you when … I'll see you. Have a good night!"

 

With that said, and with his shoes on the wrong feet, he speed-walked out of the door, giving a stiff nod to Micah's entertained face. That made him hurt harder, and it made his legs carry him out quicker. He left despite leaving his change of clothes, hoping they wouldn't think he was weird (if they didn't already) for not taking a jacket – or even a damn sweater with him.

 

_Don't follow me, don't follow me, please for the love of all that's good, don't follow me. I don't know what I'm doing._

 

He was desperate to make it to his car, to be as far away as he could from them in under five seconds or less. But Jean wasn't fast enough. Marco _ran_ to him, bolting out the door and shutting it with a swing of his arm. The noise was enough for Jean to look back, wincing at the worry etched on every part of Marco's pleading features.

 

"Jean!" He cried, still sounding drowsy.

 

But he didn't stop walking, he turned back to the front and headed faster towards his car praying Marco would give up. He should've known better. His hands had barely touched the handle of his Jetty when Marco reached him – lungs puffing out white clouds like a train. He'd come without a sweater or jacket, too. He wasn't even wearing shoes.

 

"What are you doing?" Jean accused, glaring at the hand blocking him from opening his door. If he had left his wimpy wallet and keys in his jeans back at his bathroom, he would've been thoroughly fuck out of luck.

 

"I could ask you the same thing."

 

_I'm scared_

 

"I have to—I have to go home."

 

"Why?"

 

He wasn't used to this. Marco wasn't the pushy type, not that he knew him to be anyway, "I just have to, alright?"

 

"Jean, please don't leave like this," Marco begged, the alarm in his voice made him freeze where he stood rather than fight his way inside the vehicle, "I'm sorry—I'm sorry if I went too far o-or made you uncomfortable. That wasn't my intention, I didn't mean to—I thought you wanted … I thought you wanted … "

 

 _... to kiss me, too_ , Jean finished the thought for him in his head. Which meant he really hadn't been made that part up. Marco had kissed him back. Marco had _grabbed_ him and was the reason for their deeper and longer caress.

 

Holy shit.

 

"What-What was the thing you've been wanting to tell me?" Jean asked, terrified to the bone as he twisted to look up at Marco.

 

His dark brows were furrowed in distress, but relaxed just the slightest when they finally made eye contact. And for once, Jean could see so much in his gaze that he hadn't seen before. The undisguised longing, fear and desperation colored on the flecks of glowing brown in his eyes drew the breath right out of him. This Marco, he didn't know – never _seen_.

 

"Jean, you—I—" He pursed his lips, shivering as he glanced around and mulled over how to say what he wanted. There were more street lamps in Marco's neighborhood than his, and Jean didn't know if that was a good thing or not. On one hand, he could see the vibrant emotions Marco couldn't hide – and on the other, he knew he could see his just the same.

 

But he was brave compared to Jean, because when the words finally formed a stable line in his disorganized head, he stared back at him with ambition – ambition and the rawness of his need for him to trust him. Marco swung his arms out, letting them drop limply to his sides like a balloon deflating pressure.

 

"You don't make any sense to me," He admitted confidently, "But other times, I can just look at you and know exactly what you're thinking about. You're a weird ball of everything, Jean, and I'm sorry I barely got to know you this year because—because I know I've been missing out. It's just, everything about you – your anxiety, your stubbornness, your temper, your loud voice that's never known what a whisper's meant ..."

 

Marco took a step closer and continued, "… your care, your love for your friends and family, your courage and strength to stand up to people … I find myself wanting to know more and more about you. And-And I find myself wanting all of it, because it's _you_. And I want you, I want to be with you."

 

Blood pumping in his ears, Jean still dumbly asked, “M-Me?"

 

"Yes, you. Unfiltered and perfect you."

 

Jean continued to ogle him, a statue of disbelief on the cement underneath his crooked feet. Twenty-six letters in the alphabet had arranged themselves in Marco's mouth to turn him into nothing but a man with his heart ready to give and receive. The most Jean had ever asked for in his dreams were for his feelings to be returned with a simple confession – he'd never asked for more, he's never known more.

 

This wasn't a text message asking him if he wanted to date, that relationship had been his last. That relationship had dragged for a few months. But with this boy, this boy he'd been infatuated with since the first time he'd laid eyes on him, he was different. He'd always known it, it's why it'd always angered and scared him so much throughout his life. His younger self had always wondered how it was possible to feel so strongly about someone you'd never had a proper conversation with.

 

It made him believe soulmates were real. Soulmates, past life lovers – the whole fantasy.

 

"You don't—you don't have to say anything right now," Marco added since Jean still wasn't talking, folding his arms around himself, "It might've been selfish, but I wanted you to know how I felt about you. It was getting hard keeping it to myself, and keeping it from you."

 

The single step he had taken forward, he took back. Jean was about to object to the movement but didn't know how. 

 

"Marco!"

 

They jumped, tearing their eyes away from each other to look back at the source of the voice. His mother was standing by the opened door, visibly worried – no doubt – and dumbfounded as to what her son and friend were doing outside dressed the way they were in the middle of the night.

 

Jean didn't fail to notice how much more timid Marco became now that she was watching them. He wasn't nervous by nature – as a matter of fact, Marco always had a good head on his shoulders. He was the cool and collected one out of the two, but now the roles had switched and he was having a hard time saying what he wanted.

 

"This doesn't change anything – well, I suppose it does, but I'm still your friend Jean, that much hasn't changed and I hope you believe me,” He flickered his focus between him and his house, “Please, talk to me. I didn't mean to scare you.”

 

"You can call me," Jean said, surprised that his voice didn't sound like his. It was too calm, too delicate, and saying those four words had felt like too much already. When Marco returned from his vacation, he knew he'd be able to say exactly what was on his mind. He'd come clean about everything he's ever felt for him.

 

"Okay, alright," Marco agreed, his fingers clenched and unclenched like if he'd wanted to touch him one last time. But he didn't because he knew it wasn't the right setting anymore – with the pressure of having his mom hovering in the distance and the cold air snapping its teeth on their skin, "Bye, Jean. I'll see you as soon as I get back."

 

"Promise?"

 

His eyes went shiny and a small grin grew on his face, “Yeah, I promise.”

 

Jean painfully watched him jog back towards his house. His long hair bounced with him until Ms. Camilla caught his eye. She waved at Jean, and he waved back in a daze before unlocking his car and sitting inside like the dummy he was with his head stuck in the clouds.

 

_Mom, I love him. I really do love him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys have been enjoying the fluff bc i'm about to put y'all through a dry spell
> 
>  
> 
> ps. thank you for being patient with me


	22. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All parents damage their kids at some point. Some make up for it by bundling up their child in bubble wrap love, while others choose to ignore the words 'fragile' that's taped to our foreheads.

“Come on, Micah, we're going to be late if you don't hurry!”

 

The crying pipes inside the walls came to a peaceful stop. Micah had been in the bathroom for over an hour now, insisting he had to shower before leaving because he didn't want their father to think he was as dirty as he truly was. His mother had explained earlier that six hours in a car with another smelly boy would ruin all his hard work – might as well wait until they got to their father's apartment to get clean. But he hadn't listened, as always, and so Marco had had time to torture himself with making sure everything was ready for their departure.

 

He skipped downstairs where their luggage was waiting by the end of the steps, quickly jumping over them and heading into the kitchen to where his mom was wildly cooking. It was eight in the morning, but she'd been up before even the sun.

 

“It's already this late and you two are still here. I knew we shouldn't have gone to go visit your cousin so late last night,” Her tight bun was gone, instead her long, brown hair rode in tangled waves against her back and along her arms, “But I couldn't miss Tessa's birthday party. We missed her first one and doing it again would be an insult to the entire family.”

 

“How are they?” Marco asked, a bit hesitant. He didn't know if he should talk since last night he had refused to tell his mom why Jean had ran way or why he had sprinted out of the house without any shoes like if he were welcoming pneumonia's sweet disease with open arms in the middle of the road.

 

“They're fine, good. We can't call Happy Happy anymore, though. She says other words like 'no', _'maledizione'_ , and 'God' – and not in the religious way, either.”

 

“She has a potty mouth,” Marco smiled, amused at the thought of a chubby toddler spewing words like that. His mother huffed with raised eyebrows. It was her _wait until I tell you this_ look.

 

“That's nothing,” She said, slathering mayonnaise onto bread and then throwing them into the pan on the stove, “Tessa gives a new meaning to the terrible two's – she's the source of where Maggie got her bad words from. You should have heard her when Maggie blew out her candles!”

 

“I wonder who they picked up that talk from. Mina and Thomas don't curse, right?”

 

“Marco, don't tell me you've forgotten about your uncle and aunt already? ”

 

He felt a pang of guilt at that question, even if it was sarcastic and not meant to sting that way. He shook his head anyway, “No, I haven't. I know they're a little … unfiltered. But mom, you are too sometimes.”

 

“I know,” She smiled, flipping the bread so it'd be toasted on the other side, “but having a slip of the tongue in front of your friends is different from yelling bad words to each other from one side of the room to the other in front of many people. Uncle Bailey always compliments _vibrant_ words of affection to your Auntie when he's drunk.”

 

“Oh no,” Marco withered from the inside. He knew exactly what she meant by that. They'd all lived together for a short while, but Marco still remembered the way his uncle talked when he drank one too many beers. He really loved his wife – certain _parts_ of his wife that Marco couldn't, to this day, look at her directly in the eyes because of him.

 

“Oh yes. But anyways,” She removed the toasted bread from the pan and onto a plate, reaching for an egg after, “Are you going to keep letting me talk about your balding uncle or are you going to tell me what happened last night?”

 

And there it was, the conversation he had felt hanging above his head since the second his mother saw Jean trip out their house. He knew it would've been impossible to stay quiet about what'd happened last night until he came back from break. But it hadn't stopped him from wishing.

 

“What do you mean?” He decided to play dumb.

 

It didn't work. She probably already figured out that his reason for not accompanying them to the party was not for 'getting a good study session' to keep his brain fresh before midterms like how he'd said.

 

“Well, for one, tell me about that expression on your friends face. He looked _terrified_ to see me, Marco. What'd you tell him about me? That I don't allow you to have people over? Because you know that's not true, I let your friends come over whenever they want.”

 

“No. Nothing like that. I don't think—I don't think he was scared of _you_ , mom. I think he was scared of me.”

 

Ms. Camilla barked out a laugh, surprising him as the sizzling egg cooked in the pan. She shook her head as she salted it, “I'm your mother so what I'm going to tell you is with all my love, ok? Marco, you're visibly strong but you are _not_ intimidating. Not even a little bit. Mrs. Henderson is scarier than you.”

 

“Well yeah,” Marco blushed a little at her … insult?, “she has rabbis. But I'm serious, mom. I think I scared him last night.”

 

“What did you do to him?” She asked, serious this time. By the inclination of her tone, he knew if he admitted he'd been mean to Jean – which he hadn't – he'd be getting an earful of how she didn't raise him to be an asshole.

 

“We didn't fight if that's what you're thinking.”

 

“What should I be thinking then?”

 

“I, um, don't be mad but I … I kissed him. Actually, he kissed me, but I was the one who got real close to his face just in case he wanted to and he did, but it was a small kiss … but then I gave him the second one and it wasn't so small and I think that's what scared him.”

 

Micah's steps could be heard coming up from behind him, “What'd I tell you, ma? You owe me five dollars.”

 

“First of all,” She said, pointing the hot spatula at Micah's direction as he entered the kitchen to give her a small peck on the head, “I don't make bets with my kids. And second of all, you never said anything about it.”

 

“I so did! I wiggled my brows at you after Marco pulled a Prince Charming and ran after him. Anyone would've known that's code for _they totally made out_.”

 

“Guys, I'm still in the room.”

 

“Don't ever wiggle your eyebrows at someone, it's creepy,” She advised, flipping her egg and then removing a slice of American cheese from its plastic to place it on top of her over medium whites, “And Marco, sweetie, why would I be mad that you kissed Jean?”

 

“Well, because you're always giving my friends those weird talks about using condoms – mom, please, I know you still do it, don't look so surprised.”

 

She shrugged, “I know I can be a _little_ strict, but I just want all of you to be careful and educated, why is that so wrong? And I'm not mad that you have these strong urges about your friend – ”

 

“Please, not this talk again.”

 

“— It's completely normal. When I was your age I wanted to try _everything_ with _everyone_ ,” She had to pause at both of her sons' whine. They've heard this story before, “And it's good to get it out of your system, but you two have to be careful if … if you ever decide you're passed the kissing and grabby hands stage.”

 

“Mom!” Marco wanted to die, “Mom, you're moving way too fast, I only told him I liked him last night. It's nowhere near like that and I don't know if it ever will be!”

 

“That doesn't mean anything, sweetie. I said the same thing when I was your age, but then four months later I found out I was pregnant! It's harder to control those desires when you're a teenager, and I'm just saying if it ever comes down to it, I just hope you're safe.”

 

“This is different … He hasn't even given me an answer … ”

 

She scoffed, “Well, he kissed you didn't he?”

 

“Yeah, but – I don't know.”

 

He had to push away the memory of how they'd been tangled legs last night on the small sofa, and how the day he'd slept with Jean on his bed, morning wood had been _slightly_ present. Slightly. For the both of them. It actually hadn't been that important since the main cause of that reaction was either a) needing to go pee or b) it just needed a good stretch and there was nothing romantic about any of those things.

 

He'd been mostly happy just being with Jean, and being able to hold him the way he did without it being weird or uncomfortable. But Marco would be lying if he said he never thought about it during the days (nights) after, and how the other boy hadn't protested against his affection at all.

 

His mother snapped him out of his thoughts, “Aye, Marco, I'm just speaking hypothetically here. I'm your mother and I worry, you know I do. But each and everyday I'm realizing you're not my little boy anymore and I'm trying, okay? What was I even leading this to? … Oh yes, why would Jean be afraid of you? It doesn't make any sense.”

 

“Whoa, Jean is scared of you?” Micah asked, going towards the backyard door to retrieve his dirty sneakers, "Talk about plot twist!"

 

“Yeah, maybe. I don't know,” He mumbled, it was funny how brave he'd felt last night. When he'd been with Jean, he'd only wanted to tell him tell him how he felt but now that they weren't together – and weren't going to be together for a whole week – his self-esteem had gone and hid somewhere, “After we, you know, he bolted. So I'm pretty sure I did scare him.”

 

“You sure he wasn't scared of mom?”

 

“That's what I said,” She said, placing the crispy egg onto one of the slices of toast.

 

“No, I know it was me. I know Jean.”

 

“Or maybe …” Micah pretended to think as he shoved his feet inside his shoes, grunting every so often as pieces of dried mud scattered all over the floor, “Or maybe he's not scared of – _umf!_ – you, you. Maybe he got spooked because he was the first one to make a move. Remember what happened with me and Nelly?”

 

“That was a disaster.” Marco admitted, his mother nodded beside him, “I've never seen you run so fast in my life. Does she still go to your school?”

 

“Yeah, and she avoids me like the black plague,” Micah spaced out for a quick second. No doubt reliving the day he and Marco had gone to the movies only to bump into his crush and her sister. They'd ditched their older siblings for each other only to have it backfired when Micah suddenly let the L word slip out during the climax of whatever movie they'd gone to watch.

 

It hadn't been a good idea to confess something like that while he'd had dozens of skittles swimming in his mouth either, because not only did he spit them out right onto her face when he said it, he never apologized for it and ran right out of the theater without ever looking back. Marco had watched the whole thing happen since he'd been sitting a few rows back, keeping an eye out on the then sixth graders.

 

He knew his little brother still liked her too, but the opportunity to reconnect after two years had passed. And with every part of him he hoped Jean wouldn't be like Micah. He'd chase after him again if it made it things easier for Jean.

 

“Ok, boys, enough sad romance talk, you two have to get going. You were supposed to leave at seven and look at the time. It's nine now! I swear, we're always late for everything.”

 

“It's not like dad's expecting us. But if you want to point fingers, point it at Marco, he distracted us.”

 

“You're the one who took an hour long shower.”

 

“But mom was still cooking.”

 

“Do you really want to go there, _amore_?”

 

“No ma'am.”

 

Their mother turned the stove off, taking a single big bite of her sandwich then putting it back down before she practically shoved her children out the kitchen. She grabbed the small cooler filled with juices and more egg sandwiches like the ones she'd made from the counter before following them.

 

More than half of her heart wanted to reach out for them, to keep them home with her because a man like their father didn't deserve what they were doing for him. But it wasn't her choice anymore, she knew her children were grown enough to decided whether they wanted him in his life or not. And besides, as long as they were with her for Christmas and New Years, she figured it was alright.

 

“Marco, you need to call me – no, Micah, you call me from your brother's phone every two hours since he'll be driving. Call me when you get to his apartment or if anything happens.”

 

Micah groaned as he opened the front door, dragging his suitcase from behind as the other two followed, “Can I just text you, mom? Calling is too much work.”

 

“Call, text, send a pigeon. As long as you contact me that you're safe.”

 

He complained of nothing else as they dragged themselves, along with their belongings, to the driveway where Marco's trusted Tahoe sat. There were no birds chirping, no sunny sky or greeting winds. It was a bleak and foreboding day, one that reminded Marco of the day they'd first came to Trost. But this time it came with a different feeling, because he knew he was going to miss it here the entire time he was over there.

 

After opening the side doors of the car, and placing their luggage on the floor with the exception of the small cooler, it was the boys' turn to seat themselves. And like since the beginning of time, their goodbyes were never forced or fleeting. They made it known they would miss one another with honest hugs and forehead kisses.

 

Even Micah never rejected it, he was prideful – much like Jean – but he never skipped the chance to show their mom he loved her.

 

“ _Mi mancherai_.” Ms. Camilla whispered as she let go of her children. To Marco it sounded like an unhappy farewell, but to her, it was something much more. It was a threat to their father hundreds of miles away, that if anything were to happen to her kids, he'd be the first person she'd visit.

 

“We'll miss you too, ma,” Marco pecked her on the cheek, straightening up and then getting in his vehicle with Micah in tow.

 

He watched her wave goodbye, her hair spilled around her small frame as she blew them one last kiss. Then she was gone. Then his nerves made him tremble.

 

After eight years, he didn't know if he was ready to come face to face with his father. Should he even call him that? What if he didn't recognize him? Of course he missed the man to death, he'd needed him so much while he was growing up, but now? Now not so much, not even a little.

 

Marco bit his lip, he wasn't being fair. For one thing, his father had explained his concerns about them taking a trip all alone. It _was_ a bit dangerous for two teenagers to drive more than six hours in an old car, it made sense that he hadn't wanted them to come. And he never could've called because he was a busy man, he'd always been about work. And the zero dollars he'd sent them was because he had to fend for himself and their dog, and rent, and bills and all these other things.

 

“Hey, play something on the radio,” Marco offered, wondering why his brother hadn't already.

 

“But the GPS is on.”

 

“Oh I forgot—wait how'd you unlock my phone? No, how'd you _get_ it? I had it in my pocket.”

 

Micah laughed, “Wouldn't you like to know. You're so worried, Jean could give you a big ol' smooch right now and you wouldn't even notice.”

 

“I would,” Marco coughed, exiting the neighborhood.

 

He made his brother connect his phone to the auxiliary cord, that way whenever music played, it'd soften when the GPS spoke. And since that ate so much of his battery, he also had him connect it to the car charger despite his phone being practically on one-hundred percent. It was all worth it if it meant he wouldn't have negative thoughts eating away at his brain the entire way to Jinae.

 

“What do you see in Jean, anyway? You guys are so different.”

 

“You've only met him twice,” Marco pointed out, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, “Do you not like him?”

 

“No, it's not that. Well, he _does_ look like a jerk if you want my honest opinion. The hair, the earrings, the mean-mugging face and squinty, mysterious eyes. And then there's you. You never curse, you have a thirteen year old face – I should know, I'm thirteen – and I bet you've never done anything illegal in your life.”

 

_If only you knew._

 

“Jean's never done anything illegal, either.”

 

“From what you know.”

 

“True. But it takes one to know one. Have you broken the law, Micah?” He asked, poking fun at his brother.

 

“Don't change the subject … but if you really must know, I've littered before, yeah.”

 

“Throwing things in the sinkhole doesn't count.”

 

He went silent or a moment, tweaking the volume on the stereo, but then he spoke again with the same fevered breath he always had, “I'm just saying you guys are a mismatch pair -- no wait -- you're like mismatch socks! But since you love him, I guess I can dig it.”

 

“What makes you think I love him?”

 

“Which answer do you want, the embarrassing one or the less embarrassing one?”

 

His brother was scary, he had their mother's spitting personality, “Um. Neither.”

 

“Ok. I know it's love because remember how you told me you weren't friends?”

 

“That was a long time ago. But yes.”

 

“Sure. Anyway, he was the first non-friend you've _ever_ brought over to the house. I kinda knew it since waaay back that you liked him, but Mom said not to tease you about it because then you'd stop bringing him and she wants you to get married someday – not necessarily with him – and blah, blah, blah, something about ruining your chances.”

 

Marco's mind went blank, a bad thing to happen while driving towards the highway with cars at all sides of him, but he couldn't believe it. First he had a sex talk with his mom and now one about marriage with his younger brother, “Mom is out of her mind. _You're_ out of your mind!”

 

“Ho, but get ready because that was the less embarrassing choice. The true answer, if we're being real here, is that you've been crushing on your sworn enemy since middle school.”

 

“He was never my sworn enemy, just a rascal who didn't know how to start a friendship with people. And you know, that makes zero sense even for you.”

 

“Because you're living it and I'm in the audience watching it all fold out, bro. Remember your first boyfriend? John. Remember your second boyfriend? Shaun. Remember your disastrous two day, ok-I'll-go-out-with-you-just-please-stop-crying girlfriend? Jeanne.”

 

Marco's tummy flipped, “That proves nothing. They're just names.”

 

“Face the music, bass and guitar riffs, Marco Bott, you two have been going at it for years now!”

 

“No, you can say what you want about me, but Jean already told me he was always messing with me because he was jealous that I was skinny and he was a chunky kid growing up.”

 

Micah squawked – either from what he said or from the pot hole he accidentally drove over – he didn't want to know, “Don't tell me you actually believed that baloney?”

 

“And if I did?”

 

“Ugh, Marco, sweet innocent Marco. How many times are we going to have this talk?”

 

He sighed, knowing exactly where his brother wanted the conversation to go. It's not that they always talked about it, in fact, he was sure they'd only spoken about it three times over the eight years he's known Jean. But his brother had such a ridiculous idea about the hot head annoying him throughout middle school that he didn't feel like hearing it again. Something about a fine line between love and hate.

 

“Wanna stop by Zippy's?”

 

A smart mention of the gas station they'd be reaching in two hours distracted Micah enough. Egg sandwiches and chips – any sandwiches and chips was the only way he would eat a sandwich. Marco, on the other hand, asked his brother to feed him while he drove. Screw the chips.

 

With his _Slightly Stoopid_ CD playing in the background, and with their father's apartment address stolen from that one letter he'd given them some years ago, they entered the highway with mixed emotions bouncing off the walls of the car.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

Most of their trip was made up of singing. When one CD finished, they'd try the radio for a while and sing poppy tunes, but then the signal finally went fuzzy and they had to go back to whatever was in Marco's car. Micah had found some of his ancient burned discs under his seat, laughing hysterically when *NSYNC started playing through the speakers.

 

That was nothing compared to the songs and artists that followed. Jesse McCartney, JoJo, Hilary Duff, Baby Bash – Marco thought his brother was going to pop a vein with how much he was wheezing, but it was fine. These love songs had carried him through a special faze in his childhood whether he had related with them or not, and he'd kept them with him throughout all these years for that very reason.

 

“You don't know what you're missing out on,” Marco defended, but his words fell on deaf ears.

 

He vividly remembered the current song – _Beautiful_ by Christina Aguilera – being played at his first party ever in Trost. Well, first party ever in general. And it wasn't exactly a party either. Sasha had cornered him one day against a bush and trailer in seventh grade while he'd been running to his bus, telling him to come celebrate Valentine's Day with her and some of their other friends.

 

During that time they still hadn't befriended Krista or Ymir, so the only girls who showed up to the get together were the big mood setters, Mikasa and Annie. Marco hadn't wanted to ask why he was the only boy there, afraid that he'd hurt their feelings or get glared to death, but thinking about it now he guessed they'd already known he was a little different. And apparently Bert and Reiner had already made plans that day.

 

Not surprisingly though, the party had ended horribly. Sasha had made them get in a small circle in the middle of her room to make talking easier, but then she brought out her boom-box and started playing the most miserable love songs Marco had ever heard in one pirated CD. He should've known something was off the second _Beautiful_ had transitioned to _Bleeding Love_.

 

The heart-shaped cookies they'd been eating had soured in his stomach, and soon, the water works had made their intro. Sasha had been the first to cry, sobbing that she'd never get a boyfriend because her parents were making her get braces and that her boobs were never going to grow passed an A cup. She'd been wearing a tutu skirt that day, and when she'd whirled around to dash out her room, it'd come a little too close to Marco's eyes – slashing his corneas and making him tear up as well.

 

But that wasn't all, Sasha had had her hands covering her face during her failed escape. Before her bony knee had smashed the front of Mikasa's vulnerable nose, Marco had known the party was over. Everyone had left in tears, thankfully not body bags, and even Annie who had pointed at Mikasa's bloody nose and swelling eyes had cried – tears of joy and laughter. 

 

He missed his friends so much already.

 

“Creep, why are you smiling like that?”

 

“Ah, no reason. Just kinda sucks you were still sucking on your toes during the early two-thousands.”

 

“I have never, what does that even mean?”

 

Marco's ears perked at the current song, “Oh, oh! Sing this one with me!”

 

“I don't know it. I don't _wanna_ know it.”

 

“Aw, don't be like that, just look up the lyrics – trust me, you haven't lived until you get mildly obsessed with Ashlee Simpson for a couple weeks. It's an emotional journey.”

 

“Bro, you better not start singing.”

 

“ … _Then the phone rings, I hear you. In the darkness, is a clear view, cause you've come to rescue me_ ,” Marco sang, turning up the volume to _Pieces of Me_.

 

“You're so embarrassing! I'll jump out the car if you keep doing it!”

 

“Come on don't be like – _Faaall, with you I fall so fast. I can hardly catch my breath, I hope it laaAAaast. OOOOHHH it seems like I CAN finally REST MY HEAD ON SOMETHING REAL – AND I LIKE THE WAY THAT IT FEELS! OOOOHHH—”_

He continued his screeching solo, purposefully making himself an annoyance so his brother can give in and join him. But he was too preoccupied looking ahead that he never once noticed when his brother started taking a video of him until he heard his sorry voice loop on Snapchat. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Yeah, yeah, we're at the second rest stop. Hm? Yeah, because Micah insisted on getting spicy chips to eat with breakfast and now it's … you know. Messing him up.” 

Marco watched as strangers skipped down the steps of the building leading to the restrooms as he continued listening to his mother over the phone. Since it was the beginning of the holidays, there were plenty of people parked outside with visible blankets and luggage in their cars, most from different states. 

“No, we didn't pack any Pepto, I didn't think he would get a stomach ache, sorry … Daz—Daz came by the house? What did he want? … What do you mean he said not to call him? How does he want me to—oh. Alright, I'll pay him a visit when we come back … Heh, no, he always looks that way … Bye, mom, love you, too.” 

Shoot. Marco had forgotten he was supposed to talk to his friend the day after they'd gone clubbing. His thoughts had been too wrapped up in _being_ wrapped up with Jean and the time they hadn't been able to spend together the weeks following that it'd completely slipped his mind. He was a horrible friend, he could admit that. It made him feel worse that Daz must have really needed him if he didn't even want him to call anymore and to just go straight to his house. 

But he was sure whatever problem he had could be fixed easily. The boy liked to panic a lot and blow things out of proportion when they had simple solutions. He just hoped the other wasn't too mad at him for neglecting a conversation they both knew they had to have. 

Marco caught sight of his brother slowly descending the steps, face scrunched up in discomfort as he made it to the car. 

“Not. One. Word.” Micah warned when he opened the passenger door, taking his time to gently sit down. 

He giggled their way back to the highway. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Jinae – compared to Trost – was like a men's size thirteen shoe next to a seven year old's bunny slipper. Like the sun and Pluto. Like Marco's humbleness and Jean's pride. The differences were outstanding and terrifying all at the same time. 

Since their last visit in the summer of fifth grade, there were holes in Marco's memory being filled with how their hometown looked like. It was a bit overwhelming at first – the blinding sun, the piercing, blue sky and all the lush colors and signs greeting them to Jinae – telling them _Welcome Home!_

But it didn't take long for the gooey goodness in their bellies to solidify. They'd taken a turn here, made a right there, snapped a couple pictures of funny looking restaurants and then _bam!_ , without warning it'd been thrown back at their faces quicker than the force Marco had to put on the brakes of his poor car. They didn't understand what was in front of their noses even after staring at the apartment building for more than ten minutes. 

They weren't lost. There was no way they could be lost in their own birth place, that'd be humiliating. It didn't matter if it had almost been ten years since they'd visited, once you're born somewhere, it should be law you know how to navigate yourself through it. 

But the two boys _were_ lost and they had no idea even where to begin to ask for help. 

For one, the GPS had actually lead them to the right place. Currently, they were parked in a no parking zone outside Corner Breeze apartments – where the letter had had its address, but the problem was that they were abandoned. Totally hollowed out and dumped. There was no one inside the locked office, no signs of construction workers who could tell them if this was a simple renovation or if it'd been this way for many, many years. Nothing. 

The only place Marco had a fuzzy recollection of knowing his way around was the neighborhood and surrounding areas they'd grown up in, but none of that stored information did any help for them at the moment. So they stood outside, searching for the ghosts of old inhabitants from a few yards away. 

“Maybe—maybe we put in the wrong address.” Micah suggested, by the tone of his flat voice, he himself didn't believe that. 

“This is weird. You sent him a letter months ago, right?” 

“You mean after I got in that fight and you had to come to my school?” 

“Yeah.” 

He continued looking forward, still as a statue, “Yeah, I did. And I sent him four more after that but he never responded. Guess we know why." 

Marco fought the urge to whimper. He still hadn't digested the whole situation they were in yet and quite frankly, he didn't want to. There was just no way things could have gone south so fast when they've only been in Jinae for at least an hour by car. They hadn't even had time to enjoy the better sights in town. 

“So what now?” Micah asked, eyes squinting against the sun's rays. 

Marco tried to shrug, shielding his own eyes with a hand against his forehead for shade as he looked side to side again, hoping to find their father in a bush waiting to yell _gotcha!_ at them. A vengeful surprise for wanting to surprise him first, “Um. I'm thinking, let me think.” 

“Maybe he just forgot to tell us he moved out?” 

It was possible, Marco thought. Very possible in fact. Once a workaholic, always a workaholic. No time for anyone. 

“Yeah, that's probably it,” He felt the words come out like sand paper, “And since we don't have his current address, I think – I think we should call him.” 

“No!” Micah yelled, startling him out of his skin, “You can't call him yet! He can't know we're here, Marco!” 

“Why not? It's alright now that we're here.” 

“But this was supposed to be a secret, remember? Seeing his face when he sees us will be totally different from the face he'll make if he's _expecting_ us.” 

“I know, but we don't know where he is, Micah, we can't just sit here. A cop will see us and think we're up to something. And we could get into trouble.” 

His brother pouted, lip puckering out perfectly for the birds to nip at. He gave Marco an 'okay' with a sigh and slumped shoulders, heading back towards the car with his head hanging low. Sad people stirred Marco's heart – sad brothers broke it. 

When they were both seated in their scorching, heated seats, seat belts on and heading back into traffic, Marco's brain whirled and brewed for ideas. They really were in a stump, a scary one too because there were no grown ups – real ones – to help them or tell them what the next line of action would be. But they _could_ try to find their father on their own without calling him. He just hoped he wouldn't come to regret it. 

The people of Corner Breeze had had to relocate somewhere, didn't they? It was most likely they'd move into the similar surrounding apartments and townhouses. The question was, would his dad even be in any of them? 

“I have an idea but it's not a very good one.” 

Micah's pout disappeared but he still sounded upset, “What is it?” 

“I park the car in these apartments,” He said, pointing to the orange sign up ahead, “and we go walking to other ones asking for an Anthony James Bott. If he really lived in Corner Breeze, I think he would've moved into a nearby place since its less trouble than looking for somewhere further.” 

“Alright, but what do you mean by 'if he really lived' there?” 

Marco pressed the break a little too hard as he took a left into Orange Vista apartments, “No, nothing. I didn't know how else to phrase it is all.” 

There was a wide, black gate waiting for them down a hill as they drove deeper into the complex along with a scanner with buttons to the side just in case you'd forgotten your residential card or were visiting. But that wasn't a problem. He'd once been in the car with Ymir when she had had to drop of a lady friend after work one night when they still cleaned tables at Red Lobster. The girl had forgotten her card and forgotten the code, but Ymir had taken care of that problem quickly and now Marco was glad he had been there to live it. 

“Why can't we take the car with us?” Micah asked, not noticing what his brother was doing yet, “I don't think it's a good idea to walk.” 

“Because,” He inched closer to the Toyota in front of them, feeling Micah's eyes as he watched the lady roll her window down and stretch a slender arm out. It was cold, but the sun was warm enough for some people to wear nothing but a light sweater, making them feel like the bizarre ones for the huge jackets they had on. Their mother wouldn't have let them go if she saw they weren't dressed properly. 

Focusing back to the task at hand, Marco leaned his head closer to his opened window. There was a beep, a flash of red turning to green, and then the metal started moving. 

“Uhh … ” His brother moaned from the side, already clutching onto the sides of his seat, “What's happening?” 

“Oh, right. We can't take the car because it'll drain the gas and we don't have that much money.” 

“Okay. But what the heck are you doing with the car _right now_?” 

“Nothing, we'll be fine.” 

He didn't think the lady even noticed how close he was riding on her tail. She didn't react until the gate had opened entirely, and once she took her sweet time to move her foot from one pedal to the next – she hit the gas with what Marco guessed was all her impressive leg strength, and he moved not too far behind. The engine sputtered as he zipped through, taking a sharp right as she happily and unknowingly took a left just so they wouldn't crash. 

They drove over two safety bumps, heads bobbing hard before Marco screeched into a secluded parking space and shut the car off quickly, as if it'd explode if he didn't, swallowing air a bit too harshly and checking to make sure Micah was still in one piece. 

“See,” He breathed, “that wasn't so bad, right?” 

His brother unbuckled himself, “No, of course not, I only thought we were going to _die_!” 

“Sorry, but look – we're in and now we can go look for dad.” 

“Ok genius, but tell me something. How are we going to get back in once we go out?” 

Marco unbuckled himself as well, already heading out the car, “Don't tell me you've never jumped over a fence before?” 

“Jinae's changed you already, bro.” 

He chuckled, feeling ice in the shade penetrate all the three layers of his skin. He could even feel it seeping deeper than that, through all his nerves, veins and even bones. He didn't know what they were getting themselves into, it didn't feel right in the least, but if they didn't at least try then his brother would never let him live it down. Or himself. 

Micah's comforting whistle songs kept his worry from showing on his face. It didn't matter how lost they were, or how foreign Jinae was to them, the boys kept hope tight on a leash around their necks. Without it, they never would've even bothered to come. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Their walk to the main office had been short, but their talk with the man behind the counter had been even shorter. The worker had happily looked in their archive for their father's name, the smell of minty candy canes and cinnamon sticks soothed them as they waited. But they knew he wasn't there when he frowned and shook his head at the computer screen. 

“Sorry, kids, not here.” 

“Are you sure?” Micah had asked. 

“Yup, not here.” 

“Well, can you look again?” 

The man had been taken aback by the sharpness in his question, and so had Marco. His brother wasn't one to be even the slightest bit rude to workers. 

“I'm looking at our information right now – he isn't in our system.” 

“Mind if I take a look? Sometimes people don't know how to spell our last name. It's B-O-T-T. Two T's, not one. Here – let me just come over there—” 

“Micah, quit it,” Marco had had to hold on to his brother's arm, seeing the irritation on the man's face and imagining them in the back of a police car, “I'm sorry, sir, we'll see ourselves out.” 

“What? NO! He's wearing glasses, Marco, he probably can't see his name!” 

With every fiber of his being, Marco had thanked the high heavens that that was the only time his brother had acted out, because it only got worse from there. The first few times they'd been told his father was not a resident in any of those apartments, they had smiled and said thank you, but then three turned to four and four turned to six. Their respectful grins had shifted downwards into concern, always glancing at the clocks near their bells, sign up sheets, wall or name plates to see time moving forward far too quickly. 

Micah's anger had only risen once they were outside, slapping himself with his hands as if it would wake him up. Soon though, the same repeated sentence silenced him: 

“Ah, there doesn't seem to be anyone under that name here, sorry.” 

“Try the next complex over, it's where most Breeze Corner folks moved to. Good luck!” 

“Nope, no Anthony James Bott here, kiddos.” 

“Have you tried calling him? Because he isn't here, sorry.” 

Over and over, grueling minute after grueling minute they had the same song on repeat. Orange Vista had lead them to Forest Pines, that had lead them to Pleasant Hill, that had lead them to The 23-80, that had lead them to Eclipse, that had lead them to more dead ends. Soon, the boys had traveled for over two hours by foot, empty handed and no longer hiding their creeping fear. 

If they couldn't find him, they'd have to try his phone – or worse – they'd have to call their _mom_. Marco could already hear the thunder of her voice telling him how she knew this would've happened, how this is something a 'man like him' would have obviously done to her children. He didn't want to hear it, and to tell the truth, he didn't want to hear from Anthony either. 

“We should head back to the car.” Marco said, looking down at his brother while they walked along the empty sidewalk. It didn't seem like anyone else was this dumb to take a stroll in the now thirty degree temperature. 

“But we haven't found him yet.” 

“I know, but think about it, Micah. We don't have _any_ clue where to find him. This was the only idea that I could think of and it's lead us nowhere." 

“So what are we going to do?” He challenged, “Sleep in the car and start over tomorrow? Let's just keep walking for another hour, maybe we'll find him.” 

“No, no we can't. I'm sorry, but we can't – it's too dangerous … I don't want to do this, but I think we need to call mom." 

His brother stopped walking, facing him head on and latching onto his arms, “Anything but that! She'll make us wait here while she comes to pick us up and then we'll _never_ see him! You know we won't! What if I – okay, what if I give in? Let's ruin the surprise, let's just call him, yeah?” 

Marco looked away from his pleading gaze, eyes traveling instead to a cheap motel and gas station before momentarily closing them. He sighed, smelling greasy oil and smoke from passing cars. It wasn't easy being the adult, “No, I think you know he won't answer.” 

“That's not true, he does sometimes! Give me your phone, I'll try him!” 

“Micah—” 

“Please!” 

Not seeing why he shouldn't, Marco thrust his hand inside his jacket pocket. Empty. He tried the other, then the front of his pants then back. Empty, all empty besides the car keys. Then he remembered he'd had Micah plug it into the car and he'd never bothered to take it when they left – full of adrenaline from almost crashing – it had slipped his mind and now it was probably done sucking the life out of the Tahoe. He could feel the blood draining from his face. 

_Merda, sono un idiota!_

“Tell me you're joking.” 

He looked down at his brother, and the other instantly knew _where_ the phone was and how he now had no choice but to walk back another heavy two hours whether he wanted to or not. 

“Ok, we really have to go back. This has turned from mild to bhut jolokia spicy, Micah, we'll be lucky if the car still works!” 

The ones that drove by them flung gallons of cold air to their faces, as if mocking their misfortune. They both had runny noses that could be tamed with a simple rub of the back of their hand, but if they stayed out any longer they could get seriously sick. Or seriously mugged, or seriously ran over. Micah knew this, and that's the only reason why he agreed with a kick to a pole nearby. 

Their mother was right, they were always late for everything, but Marco hadn't thought that meant much since there had been no scheduled time to meet with their father. But leaving at nine in the morning had made them arrive at Jinae at three in the afternoon. They spent two hours out searching for a ghost, which Marco admitted was not his most brilliant idea, so the sky would be the shade of seven in the evening – dark and ocean blue, and empty by the time their adventure was over. 

And he was almost spot-on. The tired boys had made it to Orange Vista a little longer than the amount of time it'd taken them to leave. They'd gotten lost a couple times, helplessly asking around for directions at nearby fast food restaurants and convenience stores. But they couldn't rejoice once they'd found the apartments, remembering there was a black, metal fence surrounding the area. 

The trembling in their limbs had doubled when they realized this would probably be the hardest part of the night – physically, at least. The ice in the air had swam its way into their jackets, sweaters, shirts and thermos long ago, and now it kissed their skin with goosflesh, biting them when they found a secluded spot where headlights couldn't reach them. Only the darkness of the night and the shadows that followed. 

Micah went first, getting a boost from Marco's locked fingers floating above frozen ground. He was thrust upwards and carefully over, but careful wasn't enough. There was a pop and a wail before Marco realized his brother had twisted his ankle on the landing. His body moved before his mind could come up with any other thought, legs springing up and hands gripping the freezing metal. He swung his entire body over, landing on his feet in two seconds and getting to his brother in one. 

It wasn't broken, Marco decided, but it was definitely sprained and bloating with warmth. 

“Can you walk on it?” 

Micah remained seated on the dirt, face down with fresh tears silently spilling onto his pale cheeks. 

“It's okay,” Marco squatted in front of him, offering a piggy back ride, “We're not that far, anyway.” 

He felt shaking arms wrap around his neck, then lifted. Micah had gained weight in bone rather than meat. The last time he had given his brother a piggy back ride had been too long to remember, and as heavy as he was, Marco kept the strain out of his breath as he walked along the pine filled backyards of strangers. He had no doubt Micah had stepped onto a pine-cone when he'd landed. Or a rock. 

What should have taken three minutes to navigate through the small woods, seven had taken up more of their remaining body heat. It felt good to step on concrete once they'd made it out, it was easier than slippery pine needles, trees and splinters. There was even light from the homes inside spilling out into the dark, making it easy to spot the car around the curve of the fence. 

Marco quickened his pace, arms instinctively gripping his brothers legs tighter so he wouldn't fall. His breath was puffing out in clouds, muscles crying in confused pain – the insides felt like they were on fire while his skin was still burning in cold. But finally, when they reached the Tahoe, they felt they could relax even if just for a minute. 

“Lean against the car, okay?” Marco advised, lowering him down as best he could until his brother slipped off, body steady on the cold metal. 

With numb, hard fingers, he fished the keys out of his pocket, opening the passenger door before helping Micah inside. He had to hop in order not to put any weight on the sprain, and Marco could tell how much he wanted to cry again, except he held it in. He was a pre-teen, embarrassed enough that his big brother had seen his tears in the dark, and in order not to make the same mistake twice he opted for anger. 

“I can buckle myself in just fine, _thanks_.” Micah spat, it didn't come out as hostile as he'd probably liked, but it was enough for Marco to get the picture. 

This was his fault, he knew that much, and with the way his little brother's cold eyes wouldn't meet his made him realize he agreed to that thought, too. Marco's stomach sank as shame rose up to his cheeks – wanting to give him some time alone, but in their predicament that wasn't possible. 

He gave his brother a nod, closed his door and briskly walked to the drivers side, taking no time in getting in to see what the damage was. 

He put the keys in the ignition, taking a second to pray for the car to work, then twisted. And just like how he'd predicted, it was dead. But he continued to try, turning the key slowly – then fast – even removing his phone and all the wires it was connected to from sucking anymore power than it already had as if it would fix it. Nothing worked. 

“We're going to freaking die here.” 

Marco ignored him, turning the key a few more times before abruptly sitting back in his seat, arms hanging to the side. This couldn't be happening. They'd planned this trip for so long – he'd planned for a popped wheel, running out of gas, losing phone service, and taking the wrong street to his father's home. But not this, never this. Never finding the right place only for it to turn out it wasn't. 

“Stay here.” 

He didn't offer any sort of explanation as he left the vehicle, but he knew Micah was watching him skip his way over to the closest apartment to them. His legs felt stuffed with lead and he could feel the unfamiliar lines of exasperation around his mouth and eyebrows as he went up a flight of stairs. He'd never been so disappointed in himself. 

Marco softly knocked on the door three times, getting a grip as he waited for the owners to open. He only waited a minute before marching onto the next one. 

He saw their window shutters move around after ringing the doorbell, but they ignored him. When he continued ringing, they cracked the door open too small for him too see and shouted at him in a language he didn't understand. He was gone before they finished. 

Going up another staircase, Marco fixed the anxiety he felt choking him and knocked again on the nearest door, realizing that sometimes giving in to what other people want wasn't for the best no matter their reasoning. Jean and his friends were right – he didn't know how to stand up for himself or how to say no. He should have called his mother the second they'd seen the empty apartments, there couldn't have been a bigger sign saying they were headed for trouble. 

But he'd been so bent on making Micah happy that he'd ignored it. There'd never been consequences to indulging other people before, or maybe, he'd simply never seen it. 

“The pizza man is—!” 

A girl about the age of his brother greeted him along with three others in the living room wearing the same type of pajama patterns as her, her bulging eyes were afraid at first, but then he offered a smile and asked to speak to a grown up. 

“Pa, someone's looking for you!” She cried out, never leaving the door despite the cold. Marco could hear the other girls giggling to one another. 

“Who is it?” 

An old man, short and pleasantly round, appeared from a hallway he couldn't see due to the door frame. He was putting on thick glasses on the bridge of his pink nose before he made it to where they stood, confused about who this shivering kid could be or want with him. 

“Hello, sir, I was wondering if you could help me and my brother out,” Marco started. It was always easier for him to be nice to other people when he didn't feel so nice on the inside, “Our car battery is dead and – we have jumper cables if you don't have them – but do you think you could lend us some power?” 

“My o' my,” He shook his head – not disapprovingly – more at the situation, “to be stranded in this weather. Kimmy, get my jacket I'm going out.” 

“Ok, grandpa,” The girl – Kimmy – sang. 

Marco willed the tears back, “Thank you so much. You have no idea how much we appreciate it.” 

He waved him off, his already pink face growing a shade pinker, “No need, no need. It's nothing, really – if this would've happened to my granddaughter and her friends, I'd want someone to help them, too. So, where is this car of yours?” 

Marco stepped back, giving the man space to see where he was pointing at. The alcohol in his breath wasn't strong, but it was there, “That one, the Tahoe where the boy is waving.” 

“My truck's not far off—“ 

“Here, Pa,” Kimmy came back with what looked like cotton shoved inside rolls of long, black balloons. It was the chunkiest jacket he'd ever seen and made the man look like some sort of cartoon character. It was a jacket made for superheros, he decided. 

“—Oh, thanks sweetheart. Alright. Let's get going before the Dominos guy shows up. You girls stay where you're at.” 

Marco felt a bit of tension release from his shoulders. It was freezing outside and they were still in the middle of nowhere with a minimum of two hundred dollars for emergencies, but at least they'd have one less thing to worry about. Without any form of transportation, they would've been completely helpless. 

They walked in silence as they descended the staircase, the man might've made a comment or two about the weather and his situation, but Marco was too preoccupied with the urge to not hug him to death to say anything. 

“You get your car ready while I bring mine over, uh, what's your name, son?” 

“Marco, sorry.” 

“'S alright, you can call me Mr. H.” 

They parted ways at the end of the sidewalk, agreeing to meet up in a minute or less. While Marco went to pop the hood of the car and scurried to the back to bring out the cables, the old man went to get his truck and roll it next to his. 

“Good thing you two choose this spot,” Mr. H said once he was situated next to them, looking around to see the shrubs and trees as their view. 

They were in a semi-secluded area, and Marco almost told him it was the quickest parking spot he could find that didn't result in him crashing into another car after hitting the gas so hard so he wouldn't – yet again – crash into a woman who he had sneaked through with. Instead he nodded and pulled a flashlight out of the trunk. 

The process took less time than their worries had said it would. The man had made sure he'd turned off his engine and had then popped his hood as well. Positive to positive, negative to stable metal. At first, Mr. H offered most of the conversation while they'd waited for his car to charge up, telling him how hard it was raising a teenager all by himself when all she wanted to do was talk about boys or how Sandy kept trying to steal them from her. 

They'd sneaked a peek back at his apartment, watching as four girls clumsily ducked under the living room window they'd been staring at for the past seven minutes. He'd told Marco they'd go even crazier if they saw a boy their age in the Tahoe – and Marco had agreed that preteens were confusing to handle despite themselves having been one. 

He'd taken advantage of the fact that Micah was in the car to complain a little. He'd told him about how some days he felt like he still had his little brother – the one that collected feathers and teeth and liked sinkholes – but then some days he felt like he was someone completely different. The growing he could handle, the way he thought the whole world was against him or how angry he'd become for what seemed like no reason … that was harder. 

It made Marco realize his mother must've felt the same way for him, and was continuing to feel that way for both her children. 

“The most I can do is offer him advice,” Marco finished, pausing the coil he was creating after finishing the charge, “and be there for him when he messes up, but since he's at that questionable age where nothing seems right, it's mostly his choice to see what he wants to do with what I say.” 

“Mm, that's very true. You can lead a horse to water, but ya can't make him drink.” 

“Funny how those sayings are always relevant.” 

“Yeah,” Mr. H sighed, “So tell me, mother or father?” 

“I'm sorry?” 

“You missing your father, mother or both?” 

Marco stared at him, “What do you mean? How'd you know?” 

“You sound like a parent. And I was the _exact_ same way with my siblings when we lost my father. I tried being his replacement since I was the oldest – thought it was my job. I think that's why I screwed up so many times,” He smiled, “But somewhere down the line I realized that parents aren't perfect. So, you don't have to be so perfect either. Say, you're not from around here are you?” 

“No,” Marco tried returning the smile, but it didn't feel right, “no, actually we're here looking for our dad. I know it sounds weird but the address he gave us, well, I don't know. He was supposed to be at Corner Breeze, but that place is empty.” 

“And has been for the past five years. Most of the residents scattered around like roaches. Have you tried The Falls? Could be there.” 

Marco shut the trunk, he couldn't feel the cold anymore, “We tried every surrounding area. It's alright, though, we'll keep looking for him tomorrow.” 

“Oh!” The old man snapped his fingers before they could go their separate ways, “You need to try the motels if you haven't already! They're cheaper than these pricey things and even we lived in one for a while before getting back up on our feet.” 

“Motels? Alright, we'll give it a try. I saw one back there when we were out searching. Thank you, sir, for everything.” 

“You're welcome – if you need anything else – you know where I live. And another thing, don't feel down about your brother. He may be angry right now, but it'll pass, I promise.” 

Marco tried another smile, feeling it actually mean more than the last, and waved after him, keeping his eyes on the man until he was safely inside his house. He had to wave again when the girls reappeared on the window. 

“So what now?” Micah asked, sniffing boogers back when Marco entered the car. 

“We're staying at a motel tonight.” 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Under many different circumstances, Marco would have chosen a different place almost indefinitely. The Lodge was – in one word – frightening. Even more so now in the dark hours of the winter night that was currently kicking their icicle behinds. The office's roof, along with the small rectangle of rooms behind it, was a faded mint green with vines, dead leaves and water stains decorating it. The outside walls must have been beige once, but now it looked brown more than anything. 

That alone wasn't enough to scare the boys, what was scariest was the flickering _VACANCY_ red sign under the name of the motel and how obvious that should have been. No one in their right mind would have slept in any of those room when there was a perfectly safe Holiday Inn almost two blocks back. But they had to be tight with what little money they had, no matter how empty the parking lot was or how creepy the man in the office had been. 

After Marco had helped his brother sit down on the itchy mattress of their new room, and after double-triple-quadruple making sure he'd locked the car once the last of their belongings were thrown on the floor, he scurried inside and shut the door with more force than intended. Not that it mattered, they had no neighbors. 

Things were almost looking okay once he locked the wiggly door and slid down its chipping paint, but then his fully charged phone that he hadn't bothered checking on started ringing a generic tune and his heart almost gave out. As generic as it was, it was one he had specifically chosen for their mother. 

_So this is how it ends_ , Marco morbidly thought as he slid his phone to answer. 

“Mo—“ 

“Marco. _Anthony_. Bott.” He winced at his middle – which was regrettably his fathers first name – and bit his tongue. She was gonna let him have it, “So now you decide to answer? I don't even know where to start! We agreed that you two would call me every two hours and then when you were with that—when you were with your dad! What happened? _Sai che ore sono?_ Do you have any idea what time it is? It is midnight, it is _tomorrow_ already and I was one missed call away from calling the police!” 

“I can explain.“ 

“Oh, _caro_ , you don't really have a choice.” 

Marco squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make the corks of his failing machine brain to work. She would kill their father before they could see him if he told her the truth, so that was out of the question. But lying to his mother was as easy as finding a piece of hay in a needle stack. 

His most selfish thought, though, was that he needed to fix the mess he'd created all on his own. 

“Don't freak out, please,” He begged, looking at Micah for motivation. But it felt more like was staring into a mirror, he had no doubt he wore the same terror filled mask on his face, “But one of our wheels popped once we entered town. I, uh, I didn't know where to go and the signal here isn't great – We're at a motel using the WiFi—” 

“Motel!” 

“No, don't worry, it's only fifty dollars for one night and yeah. We wasted most of our time here looking for a mechanic that didn't charge all the money we had. And, I mean, that's why we couldn't talk, I was too busy trying to fix the car as quickly as possible that time escaped me.” 

“So you mean to tell me you haven't even caught up with your father?!” 

“No, but – ” 

“Oh, let me guess. You called and he didn't answer, right?” 

“We haven't called!” He fixed his volume before she could fix it for him, “We haven't called him. We wanted to surprise him, and a popped wheel is no big deal, mom, really. We just had a hiccup on the road, we'll rest here tonight and then by morning we'll be with him.” 

His mom hesitated before speaking again, meaning, she wasn't fully buying his shit story, “I still don't understand. What do you mean the wheel popped? Didn't you buy a spare just last week?” 

“Y-Yes, but apparently I bought the wrong type and it turns out it's actually way bigger than what I needed so I had to buy a new one.” 

“I knew I should have gone with you that day,” He heard his mother sigh, it wasn't exactly a breath of relief, but he knew she was calmer now that they'd spoken, “How far are you from your father?” 

“I'm not sure, but I'll try the GPS tomorrow again and if it doesn't work, we'll ask around for directions.” 

“And you will call me when you get to his apartments.” 

“Absolutely.” 

“Let me speak to your brother.” 

Marco got up from the floor and handed the phone to Micah, feeling a thousand times safer than he had minutes before despite thinking he was going to get his head chewed off. The brothers exchanged a momentary glance before Micah started repeating their fake story with much more enthusiasm than Marco felt necessary. He could grow up as much as he wanted, but speaking from experience, Marco knew he'd always feel that twinge of safety when their mom was around – well, as 'around' as talking over the phone was in their situation. 

He let them speak for as long as they wanted, unzipping their bags and pulling out pajamas, underwear and toothbrushes. Feeling his stomach growl, he put the toothbrushes back and tore apart the cooler where they had spare egg sandwiches – bless their mother. He knew they'd probably be soggy and cold, but who was he to complain? Soggy and cold tasted like paradise when he took the first bite, preparing one for Micah in a loose napkin before handing it to him. He didn't ask for chips. 

They remained that way for another hour, passing the phone back and forth while their mouths were full of food, eventually deciding putting her on speaker was a much better idea. She scolded them a couple more times, usually ending in her description of how lonely she was and how maybe their house was a little haunted. But after a while, they grew sleepy and said their goodbyes with _I love you_ 's and _I miss you, too_ 's and _I'm sorry_ 's. 

“G'night” Micah yawned in the dark, last to finish in the bathroom. He had been forgiven. 

“Goodnight, Micah.” 

Not soon after he could hear light snoring from the bed next to his. And as exhausted and totally wasted as he felt, sleep didn't come to him easily. Marco blamed it on the rough blankets, or how thin they were against the cold seeping into their cracked door. He blamed it on the food still digesting in his gut, rumbling low like what the unspeakable creatures under their beds might sound like. He blamed it on his brain processing their unfortunate day. Heck, he even blamed it on the universe. 

But he knew why he couldn't sleep. Selfishly, despite the hectic day he'd just had, his body was flooding him with thoughts of someone who knew how to warm him up even in the coldest of rooms. 

There was boy with soft lips kissing him in his head, and for once, Marco didn't feel bad about thinking of him _in that way_. Soft hands, soft touches, soft everything besides his personality. Marco hadn't wanted to stop feeling him everywhere, he never even knew he'd wanted Jean that much – physically. And emotionally. And mentally and any other words ending in -ally. 

Marco pulled the covers of his head, turning his phone on and going to their messages. Jean was probably asleep by now, he really shouldn't text him after telling him to think about what he had confessed the night before just in case it affected the other somehow. But he couldn't help it, the boy did strange things to him – and now that feeling had doubled after kissing him so … so _desperately_ on his couch. 

He trembled remembering how Jean had ran his fingers through his hair. 

With his heart speeding up and his cheeks glowing, Marco sent him a message before he could chicken out. Not long after he fell asleep. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“Micah, wake up, breakfast.” 

“No.” 

“Come on, it's McDonald's, you like that stuff.” 

He groaned, “Grease gives me pimples now.” 

“Buddy, that's just the beginning of a long list of things that'll give you pimples.” 

By the time Marco's alarm clock had rang for them to wake up at eight in the morning – their mom's idea – he'd been dressed, refreshed, drove to the fast food restaurant and back. He'd even eaten his entire McGriddle and hash browns on his way and had sent his mother a reassuring message that they were still alive. He hadn't failed to see that Jean hadn't responded to him, but he hadn't been expecting an answer anyway. 

Micah sat up from the hard mattress, a huge cowlick taking resident on the left side of his head. He watched as his brother packed what little items they'd taken out and haul them out the door where the car was parked directly in front of their room. It was warmer than yesterday – but still cold enough to need sweaters or jackets. 

“How's the foot?” Marco asked once the last of their bags were gone. 

Micah carefully scooted closer to the edge of the bed, lowering his leg before adding pressure to his feet, “Way better.” 

“Think you can manage to walk on your own … or do you want another piggy back ride?” 

That earned him a sneer. 

“Ok, no piggy back,” Marco laughed, ambition still lingering around them somewhere, “I put a change of clothes for you in the bathroom if you wanted to get out of those sweatpants. I'm gonna go check us out, alright? Eat your breakfast!” 

Marco closed the door behind him, bracing the wind and trudging over to the small office. He was surprisingly in a good mood after what they'd gone through. It made sense, though, because now he had more food in his belly and had spoken to their mother, he felt like maybe they'll have better luck today. 

It only took him a minute to pass through the dirt to get to the small shack – the parking lots had no cement – and it stained his sneakers with orange that powdered the bottoms of his jeans. But at least the sky was still blue and the clouds weren't threatening to spill rain. 

“Hello?” Marco entered the small office, noticing how hot it was thanks to a heater in the corner. He was expecting to see the same lanky man that'd been there last night. 

But he was happy to find himself face to face with an older man who hadn't even bothered to look up when he greeted him. His skin was tanned and red, his hair orange and balding from the hairline. Marco's eyes narrowed – then doubled in size when he realized he knew who this man was. Once, he used to be thinner and dressed in anything other than stained wife-beaters and a golden name tag. 

It wasn't his father, but hell if it didn't make him feel like someone had just burst one of his lungs. 

“Uncle-Uncle Gordy?” Marco whispered, taking a slow step forward. 

He wasn't sure this was the same friend his father had been with when he was younger. Too much was different, and yet, he still looked the same if only for a couple changes. Well, maybe more than a couple if he had stopped working in the office to work … here. 

“Haven't heard that name in—” The man looked up from the magazine he'd been engrossed in, dropping the pen he'd had in his mouth onto the counter that fell to the floor. His light, brown eyes popped when he saw Marco. They were bloodshot, but intelligent, “Wait a minute. My God, Marco, is that you?” 

“Y-Yes! It's me, you remember me?” 

The man wobbled out from behind the counter, “Of course I do! How could I not, boy? I used to eat dinner at your house everyday! Don't tell me you forgot me and your dad used to be pals?” 

_Used to_ , He tried not to dwell on that. 

“No, I remember,” He gasped when the man gave him a rather painful hug. He could smell the cigarettes on his clothing, “It's just been s-so long.” 

“Not long enough for this old man to forget! Look at you, you're taller than me now! How's your, ma? Heard you guys moved to Trost in the middle of nowhere,” He chuckled, letting him go only to slip an arm around his shoulder, “You guys doing okay?” 

“We're fine. Actually, me and Micah are here to visit my dad.” 

“Oh, really? That's good, that's great. It's nice to see young kids still thinking of their family,” His grin disappeared into a frown of confusion, “Hold it. If you're here visiting your father, why are you in such a crummy place, eh? Don't tell me he's not finished adding that new room and sent you here?” 

“New room? Are you allowed to do that in apartments?” 

“Apartments? Ha! You're still a jokester, I see. You know, chicks are really into guys like that.” 

Marco gave him a funny look, “Uh, yeah, I bet they are. But what do you mean—“ 

“Now, don't be modest,” Uncle Gordy gave him a wink, “Your father already told me all about your girl back home! Or are you not together anymore? It _has_ been a while since I've talked to him, I'll admit, and you kids go through relationships like how I go through cigarette packs – two in one day, ha!” 

His bubbly laughter shook Marco in his shoes, “I don't like—I don't have one. I don't have a girlfriend.” 

“Oh. That's alright, who needs 'em anyway? You're still a handsome kid, you're in no rush.” 

“Thank you. Um. Do you—do you know where my dad lives?” Marco swallowed, his throat felt dry and his head felt light, “I, uh, I haven't been to his house? In a while and lost his address. That's why—“ 

“Oh sure, I've got it! Gave it to me when I was fired and he was promoted. Crazy how life works.” 

“Yeah … crazy.” 

Uncle Gordy walked back to his counter, vanishing as he ducked down to search for something in the drawers with a hum in the air. Marco stayed where he stood – even the Buddha statue to his right was moving more than he was. It's just – he was bewildered by the false information his father had given out about his love life and he just couldn't – _didn't_ – want to know what he'd meant by promotion … renovation … house. 

But he wasn't dense. He could take a guess. 

“Here it is! Knew I had it somewhere safe,” He strolled back with a flimsy piece of notebook paper, grabbing Marco's stiff hand and placing it there like if it were actually bribe money, “You have it, I'm sure I have a copy somewhere else. The _real_ copy, ha! I don't know how many times I've lost it.” 

“Have you, have you seen his house?” 

“Me?” Something bitter crossed his uncle's face, something like hate, “Naw, nah. I don't have the time since I'm busy managing this palace. But don't hesitate to tell him I sent you!” 

The most Marco could do was thank him, hoping checking out wouldn't take as long as he thought it would. But he remembered Uncle Gordon had the ability to talk until he started yakking on his parched throat, and so he stayed hearing him talk about the 'curse in disguise' that was him getting fired that lead him to where he met his wife. Now they both live here, and he almost made him wait to introduce her, but as soon as the phone on the counter rang, Marco thanked him again and was gone. 

Micah was already waiting for him inside the car when he got back, watching the housekeeper moving about in their room through the dirty window. He was barely finishing his breakfast when Marco threw himself inside and sat for a solid minute, thinking. 

He was going to keep this information to himself – well, the information his Uncle gave him about the house. House could mean anything, right? Maybe he'd meant townhouse and not a _house_ house. And the promotion and renovation … There just had to be some sort of explanation. Either way, he didn't want to jump to conclusions or freak his brother out for no reason. He'd done enough damage yesterday. 

“Earth to Marco, hello?” Micah waved a hand in front of his face. 

“Huh?” 

“I asked what's the next move.” 

“Oh, right,” He shook his head, shooting his brother a forced smile before turning the car on, “You'll never guess who I bumped into right now.” 

“Dad?!” 

“No, of course not. It was Uncle Gordy.” 

“Who?” 

Marco fished his phone out of his pocket, handing it to his brother with the address crumbled on top, “Type this into the GPS.” 

“Alright, but who's Uncle Gordy?” 

“Don't you remember playing in his pool when we last came here? Never mind, he's just one of dads old friends. He gave me his address.” 

“What?” Marco watched him bounce in his seat, “Are you serious? So this is it?! It's finally gonna happen?!” 

“Looks like it.” 

“Show a little enthusiasm, bro! We're finally gonna see dad!” 

“I know, it's just, I guess I'm kinda nervous.” 

Micah wildly punched in the address, not bothering to play any music this time, “Yeah, I get you. 'S kinda _whoa_ , huh? We only have old pictures of him, but I always wondered what he'd looked like now. What if he's bald? … Guess we'll find out in, mm, forty minutes. Take a right at the entrance.” 

“Forty minutes? Wow, we were nowhere near him.” 

“We gotta send this Uncle Gordy some chocolates for Christmas.” 

Marco decided not to say anything after that. His instincts were turning his stomach to jelly as they drove through the bright streets of Jinae. The scenery clashed with the storm in his head. Usually, he would roll the window down and just _feel_ and appreciate, but he couldn't do it. The most he could do was crack it down an inch so it wouldn't feel like he was suffocating. 

Twenty minutes in and Marco thought he recognized where they were, but it proved to be a false alarm. He hated to admit that the memories of his hometown had gone to shit. For all he knew they were driving in the exact opposite direction of where they grew up – or in a twist of events – it could be the street they grew up in and he was just being thrown off by new buildings. 

Micah became a true tourist the closer they got. He brought out his disposable camera from underneath his seat and started snapping pictures of every palm tree they passed. It definitely looked nice outside, inviting with crowds of people in outlet malls and salty flavored wind. The ocean wasn't too far from them, giving Marco his answer of just how far they were from their old home. 

“Look, Marco, they're so many people outside and – take a left at the light – it's _winter_. Can you imagine that in Trost?” 

“Not really, since most of the population is made up of the elderly.” 

“Look! Seagulls!” 

Another fifteen minutes passed in the same fashion – Micah excited beyond belief and Marco getting more and more homesick for his mom, for his friends, for Jean, for pine trees, for gray clouds. Of course, a small part of him _did_ want to see their father, but it'd all went down the drain after his confusing talk with his uncle. What he really needed more than anything was proof that things didn't sound as suspicious as they seemed. 

“Take a right, a right!” 

“Here?” 

“Oh, no, the next light.” 

“Micah … “ 

“What do you want from me? I'm impatient right now!" 

Marco's eyebrows furrowed, turning right where he was ordered to, “For you to admit that yourself … ” 

“Ah, shush. We're almost there." 

They went down a spiraling road, none of it sticking to Marco's memory, and made a few more lefts. There was nothing special until their last turn, because all of a sudden, they could smell neighborhood flowers and see plenty of signs welcoming the home owners. 

It really was nothing like Trost. The county noticeably put a lot of money into their roads. It was black, smooth and every yellow and white line was perfectly visible without any trace of flake offs. The entire view looked like something out of a movie – there were birds soaring and chirping, palm trees green and swaying, upbeat music playing in the distance and everything just looked so damn _perfect_. 

“Hey,” Micah squinted at the phone, “These are houses.” 

“Mmhm.” 

“But, doesn't dad live in apartments?” 

Marco slowed down, “Maybe there are some town homes nearby.” 

“I don't think so. It says to turn left right here,” He pointed to the road sign that said Little Pond. 

And just in case you'd miss it, it was written in gold against the fanciest set of bricks Marco had ever seen. There were pops of pink, purple and white flowers surrounding it, but mostly there were blue – resembling water, Marco guessed, since it was called Little Pond. And to top it all off, there were garden decorations of ducks made out of fine wood on the flower bed. 

Their neighborhood back in Trost didn't even have a name. 

“I think that man gave you the wrong address.” 

“Let's just keep going and see where it takes us.” 

Marco felt the air around his brother change, “Okay. It says to keep going straight until the stop sign. Then turn right.” 

He followed the directions, growing increasingly uncomfortable. There was nothing intimidating about the place – besides how expensive it must be – but the extreme contrast between here and them felt like too much. And not only that, but what in the world was their father doing here? 

They passed a few more houses. Most were made out of bricks, an unhealthy addiction it seemed. They even passed a couple joggers with their large dogs nicely tugging on a leash ahead of them. He didn't miss the way they eyed them cautiously, hopefully it had nothing to do with his Tahoe and how dirty it was. Dirty and old and so out of place. 

But all of that stopped mattering when Marco spotted him two houses down. 

“Why'd you stop?” Micah complained, looking around. 

Marco didn't hear him. He put the car in park and just sat there with his breath caught in his throat. Maybe Micah was too young to recognize him, but Marco knew who that man was. He was different, more so than his fake uncle had been, he would've missed him too if it weren't for the familiar limp he had on his leg from a minor car accident before he was even born. 

In his memory, his dad was always a little on the lanky side. Towering, strong in the way children think their parents are and with a bit of a hunch on his back from sitting in a desk all day. But as Marco watched him mowing the greenest grass he'd ever seen, surrounded by a white picket fence, he couldn't believe how much he'd changed. His skin was tan now from the sun, the muscles on his forearms popped with each of his movements and maybe it was the gym that changed his posture as well. 

He wasn't bald like how Micah had joked, from where they sat he could see a head full of hair. He looked amazing. He looked _happy_ even in the sweat of his chores. He didn't look like his father. 

But that was him and his racing heart knew it. 

“Marco, what the heck! Why'd you stop the car!” 

“That—that's him.” 

“Who? What? You're not making any sense!” 

Marco pointed a rigid finger to the figure ahead of them, he'd turned his back to them now, mowing the other side of the yard. Even through his shirt, they could see how toned he was, “Look, Micah. That's him.” 

“No, that's … I dunno _who_ that is, but—hey, where are you going?!” 

Marco tried bargaining with himself as he stomped his way to the other side of the street and then on to the perfect, perfect sidewalk. There weren't even any gum blobs on it! How amazing was this place, anyway? 

He breathed and tried again. 

_Just because he's living in a neighborhood like this, with cars like that, doesn't mean anything. I mean, he probably pays loads for where he's living and … and …_. 

He couldn't do it anymore. Lying to himself, making excuses for him wasn't easy now that he'd come face to face with reality. There was no good explanation as to what this all meant. He was old enough to understand something was horribly, horribly wrong in the picture he'd created of their father – no – in the picture their father had created for _them_. There was no pale, penniless man working his life away like how he'd said. And Marco could see how it was jumbling the living hell out of his brother beside him. 

Marco felt his feet slowing as they reached the house, eyes never ripping away from their father. His hands clenched and unclenched, and he felt awfully hot in his jacket despite the cold sweat forming above his brow. He was almost certain even the wind had stopped moving when their dad turned himself and the machine around. Marco couldn't move. None of them did. 

He could see his reactions play across his face. Surprise. He wasn't expecting to find two boys watching him cut his grass on a boring Sunday morning. Confusion. They seemed familiar, that's for sure. Realization. He knew who they were and broke into a startle that reminded Marco too much of himself. Fear. He didn't understand that one. 

“Marco? Micah? Is that you?” 

For whatever reason, neither responded. But that didn't stop their father from turning the lawn mower off and walking towards where they were awestruck. 

“What—What are you two doing here?” He asked once he stood in front of them, hands moving to his hips and a sliver of a smile on his lips like if he wasn't sure he wanted to be happy to see them. 

He looked between the two boys for a while and Marco felt his insides crush at the deep wrinkles near his eyes and the whites along his temples. His freckles had darkened over time from basking in the sunlight so much, making some of the wrinkles against his forehead stand out considerably. Marco took in a deep breath, hating himself for being angry with him when the crushing weight of actually being together hit him harder than abandonment. 

He desperately, miserably missed his father more than ever now that they were standing an arms length away. All the years they hadn't been able to be together had felt like someone had been pulling a rubber band farther and farther away, and now that they'd reunited, it finally snapped. 

“Da—” 

“Dad?” 

The voice that'd interrupted him hadn't come from Micah, this voice was much higher than his. Marco turned his head back at the grand house, watching as a boy no younger than ten emerged from within holding a soccer ball in his freckled hands. His round face looked around at everyone. Eyes the shape of their fathers, but blue in color. 

“Dad, who-who are they?” The boy repeated. 

It took Marco a second to comprehend who in the world he was calling _Dad_. But the look on his father's face said it all. _Gotcha_. 

“No ... " 

“Look,” Their father put a hand on their shoulders, both were too stunned by the gesture to flinch away, “I can explain, alright? I know how it must look, but I can explain.” 

“Dad,” Marco flatly said, “I don't think you have a choice.” 

“Right. Is Camilla – is your mother here?” 

He slowly shook his head, waiting in silence as their father tried creating an explanation that seemed justifiable. He eyed them back and forth as if waiting to hear his kids say they didn't need to know what was going on after all. In a way, it was comical that the man who knew how to talk without getting to his point now had absolutely nothing to say. 

Uncle Gordy had been right. It really was crazy how life worked. 

“How old is he?” Marco snapped out of his daze when he realized his father wasn't going to speak up. 

“What?” 

He turned to the boy, “How old are you, kid?” 

The boy stuttered, cheeks going red, then closed his mouth. 

“Twelve,” His dad answered, rubbing a hand across his face until it turned shades darker, “Damian is twelve.” 

“Tell me you're not serious?” Marco begged, despite himself he couldn't help the quiver in his voice, “Dad, he's … is he really our … ? Jesus Christ, he's only one year younger than Micah!” 

“You have to understand, it wasn't easy – it's a lot to explain! What was I supposed to tell your mom? What was I supposed to tell _you_? It wouldn't have been right!” 

“And this is? This seems okay to you?” He knew it wasn't right to point a finger at the boy, but he couldn't help it, “We've worried about you for so long – all we ever asked of you were phone calls – that's it! We never asked for your money, we never even asked for visits because we knew – we _thought_ – you couldn't!” 

His father spit on the ground, moving his jaw around in the same way Marco remembered he did when handling business at home, “How did you find me?” 

In other words, he wanted to know who was responsible for ruining all the years he'd worked hard to keep secret. 

“It doesn't matter how.” 

“Was it Wallace? No. It was Gordon, wasn't it? He's the only idiot – ” His nostrils flared, “I thought your mother would've stopped talking to him after she left, she never liked him being around you boys … You should've came to me first – you should've called so I could've prepared and handled this better!” 

“So it's our fault?” Marco asked, amazed at the accusation. 

“No! You're putting words in my mouth, you just shouldn't have ever gone to him in the first place! He's a drug addict, Marco, he doesn't know what he's talking about half the time.” 

“Oh, and I suppose you do?” Marco, emotionless but aware, glared at the agitated concern in his father's eyes, “I think you're the one who doesn't know what he's talking about, dad. Why'd you tell Uncle Gordy I had a girlfriend?” 

Back at the motel's office, that tidbit of information hadn't meant too much. It was possible his father had forgotten he didn't like girls after all these years and had lied to impress his friends. But now, he was remembering the talks his mother had given him when he'd come home crying from school because a boy had called him names he hadn't understood at that time. His father would always stand by a corner, looking at him with the same eyes the kids had worn. 

“What? I can't tell my friends you have a girl or two? Why's that so wrong?” 

“You know why, so why'd you do it?” He hated how close to tears he felt, he hated how disgusted his father looked. 

“Marco, I'm not saying it. I'm not going to say it, so stop it.” 

“No!” He felt a flash of rage bursting through his cracks, but eased it back down so he could say what he needed, “go on and do me the favor. Why'd you tell Uncle Gordy I had a girlfriend? You sure made yourself seem like you knew so much about me, so please.” 

“It's not what you're thinking.” 

“Why don't you care about me and Micah?” 

“I never said I didn't care about you or your brother!” 

“You're not saying _anything_ , period! It's pathetic – it's really pathetic that we had to drive ourselves over here to get lost, to get hurt for _you_. You have no idea – you can't even manage a proper explanation! Mom always said things about you, and we tried our best not to believe it, but it turns out she was right all along.” 

“Alright! Fine! You really want to know why I stopped calling?” 

“Yes!” 

“It's because you're gay, Marco!” 

He had to admit, he hadn't expected him to come right out and say it, “What?” 

"What the _hell_ was I supposed to tell my people when they asked about you, huh? Some of their kids have babies already, and I'm over here wondering what my oldest son is gonna do with his life when he's my age! Your mother was supposed to take care of you when you left, you were too small to know what you wanted,” Now that he was talking, there was no way to make him stop, “But look at what happened, you're still the same, aren't you? This is why I couldn't call. I just couldn't bring myself to ask who you were seeing, what you were doing – ” 

He paused, spiting again before continuing, “I didn't want to know. And then there was Micah. I tried making your mom keep him with me when she left, but he was too small. I had a lot to deal with after the separation, there was no way I could've looked after him. And when we talked on the phone, I just didn't know what to say. I don't—I don't understand him!” 

Marco tried to speak, but nothing came out. 

He could feel the sting of hot tears beginning to pool in the corner of his eyes at the confirmation of his words. After growing up with people who accepted him the way he was, his father's reasoning were so pitiful he didn't know whether he should laugh or cry. 

He cleared his throat, trying not to let the lump in it grow, but he couldn't find the words to match what he wanted to say. At least everything made a little more sense now. Some parents knew unconditional love, but his dad hadn't bothered to even try it. He'd made up lie after lie after lie for so many years to avoid a son that brought him humiliation and another that bored him. 

“Honey, what's going on?” 

“Nothing. Go back inside – take Damian with you.” 

For the first time since seeing their father, Micah finally moved. They all stared at the blonde lady coming down the two steps of their porch. She was pretty and young with an evening dress and a coat on with make up like if they were planning on doing something later before Marco and his brother had inconvenienced them. Her red lips silently mouthed something when she looked at the two. She knew. He must've told her some story about the ex-wife in a shitty town with her defective children. 

“Oh,” She gasped, putting her arms around her son like if they were going to snatch him away from their perfect home in their perfect neighborhood, “Is that _them_?” 

Anthony clicked his tongue, he wasn't going to answer her. 

Marco wanted to get as far away from them as possible. He knew he wasn't yet feeling the full potential of his rage and scorn, and he didn't want to stick around to see what'd happen if it came out, but there was just one last thing he needed to know from his father. It was the only part of his childhood that was still retrievable and he wasn't going to go home without her. 

“Where's Perdita?” 

“Who?” 

“Our dog,” Marco snarled, “Where is she?” 

“Oh, _patatino_ ,” His dad moaned, annoyance on his face and tone. The pet name made him want to throw up, “She's not here! She died a long, long time ago soon after you left. I had—I had to put her down when a car hit her and if I would've told you, you would've blamed me for something that wasn't my fault.” 

Marco felt something in him shatter. 

But fortunately – or unfortunately – Micah was the first to break. Marco got a quick glimpse of his brothers broken heart before it turned into fuming tears, a fist and then a leap. He was on his way towards a second strike before any of them could react. 

Marco tried yanking him by his jacket first, but that didn't work. He was stuck on their dad like dried hot glue on plastic. When he pulled, Micah made fists out of the man's sweaty shirt and pulled him with him. The entire time the lady would not stop screaming, and yet, she made no effort into actually helping out her husband or Marco. 

It didn't take long before they heard one of the neighbors coming out, asking what the hell was going on. Marco wanted to give him the announcement that there was someone staining their impeccable houses and lives with the very same nasty air they were all breathing – and surprise! It wasn't him or his brother, it was one of _them_ – one of the Perfect Town residents! 

“Get him the fuck _off_ of me!” 

Micah managed to get in another jab before he was finally stripped off of their father and into his brother's arms. He continued to thrash around, trying to grab at Anthony again like if his life depended on it, but then he slumped down hard on the ground and sobbed. A second later, he shot out of Marco's hold and ran towards the car. 

Marco found himself chasing after him, then stopped halfway down the street when purpose crossed his racing mind. He calmly marched back to where his dad was laying on the sidewalk, holding a hand over his bruising ribs with his wife running to the house for the police, or ice, or whatever. Damian hadn't moved a single inch. 

“What?” Anthony shouted at him as he pushed the neighbor off his back, “What more do you want from me?” 

Marco wasn't a fighter when it came to defending himself, but for his family, he'd do almost anything. He was his mother's son, after all, no matter how good of a person he always tried to be and he supposed making one exception wouldn't hurt anybody. Well, maybe one. 

Neither boy said a word when Marco came back, driving off with blood on his knuckles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did anybody guess that his father had a secret family? :D
> 
>  
> 
> p.s. forgive me if it felt rushed, I really didn't want to go over 17k words because holy shit


	23. Phosphorescent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, it's been a while. Have this nice long chapter full of things :)

Jean continued to stare at his notepad. It was filled with scribbles, most undecipherable, and tears from where he'd erased too hard and realized he'd written too dark. He chewed on the end of his pencil, not tasting the chalky eraser until it made him gag.

 

Reading over what he'd written, Jean mindlessly spun around for the fiftieth time in his desk chair. He would've been dizzy by now, seeing as how he'd been doing it for the past two hours, if he wasn't so focused on what was written on his beat up paper.

 

He fixed the itchy collar of his dress shirt and cleared his throat.

 

"Alright, he's going to come in--or no--I'm going to _walk_ to him when we're at ... school? His place? My place? Fuck, I haven't thought of the _where_ yet. Let me see..."

 

He detangled his crossed legs from his seat to let them rest against the carpet floor. This was harder than he thought it'd be. But it made sense, he guessed. He never once been told in his face how good he made another person feel, and trying to return the favorable words tenfold was not an easy task.

 

And to add on to that, the fact that this person wasn't just _any_ person, but Marco-freaking-Bott -- his ex enemy, his best friend, his ... potential -- the pressure was on.

 

Sure he'd wished for this exact moment lots of times during his younger years, and then some more when they'd started talking, but day dreaming about a scenario and then having it come true in real life were two very different things. He never knew he'd been in Marco's radar in the first place!

 

But he _was_ , and that's what turned him into goo every time he thought about it. Jean wanted to know how long Marco's felt that way, and why, and where, and really? He was looking forward to bombarding him with all these questions and more once the time was right.

 

Jean almost squealed as he stood up, letting his notebook lay where his butt had been, deciding it was time to put on the dress pants his mother had picked out for him at the mall nearly two years ago.

 

It was still early--five in the evening--and their guests weren't due for another hour or so. Deciding he still had time to fool around, Jean went back to his chair to read what was on his messy notepad. He ran a hand through his hair, in his mind he was seductive and hard to resist, and smirked at the pillows he'd piled up on the bottom of his bunk.

 

It was supposed to be Marco, but it didn't do the boy any justice.

 

"First I walk--none of this sitting down business, shits too awkward--then keep eye contact so he _knows_ what's on my mind," The muscles on his face making him grin like five year old on Christmas morning were hard to control, but when the time came he figured it'd be fine. He inhaled, taking the first step, then another and another with exaggeration around his hips. He felt that detail was absolutely necessary.

 

"Next we... t-talk." He scanned one of the many 'romantic intros' he'd written down and went with whatever was easiest to read. He breathed and recited with a husky voice, "'Hello, Marco. It's been a while, huh? Yeah, felt like this week's taken forever ever since you left. I see you had a good Thanksgiving. How can I tell? Oh, because you're glowing like sweet glazed honey ham. Your eyes are the same color as honey, too. Except I don't want to eat them, because that'd be weird and-and illegal'."

 

He tucked a hand under his chin, thinking, then said, "Not bad but could be better."

 

He skimmed down his list and found another, "Alright, this one's a killer for sure... _Ahem!_ Ok, here goes," Jean leaned closer to the pillow, letting one of his knees rest on top of the mattress as he ducked underneath the top bunk, "'Hey, wanna see my ant bites? There's a piece that looks like half a hand if you're interested'."

 

Somewhere in his soul, deep within another universe where other dimensions existed, he could feel an infuriated Krista yelling at him from the coldness of our far away space, telling him that his pick-up lines were an embarrassment to all the universes that carried his sorry versions. A shiver ran through his spine since the real Krista would probably chew him out too if she read what he'd written. Giving up for the moment, he allowed the notebook to fall somewhere on his floor.

 

She was big on romance, as was he, but she surpassed him on that. Her interests were in the pure--the sappy chase where the two are perfect for one another and with heartfelt confessions and roses and love letters and whatever else. His interest in romance were pointed towards the endings. Happily Ever Afters, the _three years later_ , the scenes where they're getting married and have two kids and a dog. He'd thought about asking her for help, but for now, he still wanted to keep all of this his little secret to indulge without feeling some sort of pressure to aim for a different version of perfection.

 

He wanted to do this _his_ way without any outside influence. If he asked Krista for help, he'd end up under Marco's bedroom window with a boom box. If he asked Sasha or Connie for help, he'd end up taking them to a buffet without getting anything in return. If he asked Ymir for help, she'd throw bottles of lube and condoms down his pockets.

 

The others were more 'grown up' about it, but he wasn't looking for that either. For the first time in ever, he was happy about being on his own because this had to be done the Jean way -- no matter how ugly it could end up.

 

Jean sat in front of the cotton Marco and exhaled. He gave it a gentle smack for not being the boy he wanted it to be, but smiled at the thought of seeing him in a few days. A boy in love is a beautiful sight to see.

 

"I'm glad you're back, Marco. I know--I know it's only been a week, but it felt longer than that. For me. I was dying to give you a response, and you wanna know something?"

 

He caressed the top of the pillow and answered his own question, "I think I've had one since before you beat me to a confession. You have no idea how many times I wanted to call and tell you--tell you what I'm feeling... It's a good thing Sasha dropped my phone in the toilet the day after you came or else you'd have a million messages from me."

 

He swallowed. Although it was just practice, his cheeks were flaming and he couldn't look the pillow in the face, "But now that you're here I can tell you things that have been eating away at me for a while now. Remember fifth grade?"

 

He gave out a harsh breath of air and looked the pillow right in the where his eyes should be, grabbing its sides, "The truth is I've been crazy about you since the first time I saw you! And I'm not exaggerating, either, I really am going crazy. Look at me, I'm yelling at a pillow for fuck's sake!"

 

The pillow said nothing of course, but he fell into a fit of giggles that caused him to hold onto it tightly, falling sideways onto his mattress. He'd barked at an inanimate object with so much seriousness, he _had_ to laugh at himself.

 

He had no idea what he was going to say to Marco. Or _how_ he was going to say it without exploding, but God he felt ready. So much denying, and dodging and putting up a wall that should've never even been there in the first place had exhausted him to the point where he couldn't rest well until he'd said his peace. He was glad, so glad, that Marco had been the light in the crack of that wall.

 

"Jeanbo, who are you talking to in there?"

 

"Uh, no one!" He yelled, chucking the pillow back to where it was before getting up to open the door for his mother.

 

She hadn't tried opening it herself because she was too busy putting on an earing--it required both her chubby hands. His eyes quickly moved to her face where her make up was done. Blue eyeshadow on her lids, a bit of eyeliner on her water line, mascara and shiny red lipstick. Even her cheeks were dusted in pink and her eyebrows fuller and darker.

 

It didn't stop there, though. Her hair was neatly brushed back into a sophisticated ponytail, faux pears around her neck while a simple cobalt blue dress adorned her body. Jean gave her a teasing whistle as she took a step back and spread her arms out. Normally, he never noticed when one of his girl friends did something different with their faces, but since his mother _rarely_ did, he was seriously impressed she knew how to use make up.

 

"How do I look? Do I look okay?"

 

Neither of them were really the fashionable type, but when it came to Mom and her insecurities, he was always willing to be the spokesperson for what beauty was, "Nice? _Nice_? Mom, nice is what you call the Sistine Chapel. You, on the other hand, look _breath-taxing-ly gorgeous_."

 

"Thank you very much!" She laughed, not really believing his compliment, and looked him up and down to return one until she noticed his attire, " _Et toi, Jean, ou sont vos pantalons_?"

 

"My pants are somewhere in there, don't worry. I'll put 'em on once this Daniel guy and Daniel Jr. come."

 

"His son's name is Chris."

 

"Christian? Or Christopher? Or Christophe?"

 

"Just Chris."

 

"And how old did you say he was? Nine? He'd probably appreciate my no pants look."

 

His mother gave him a look that said _she_ wouldn't appreciate it. He got the memo and went back to his room to fix that problem. She didn't linger and went back to her own room to do God knows what since she was perfect the way she looked already.

 

For the next hour Jean continued spitting cheesy lines to his pillow and checking up on the jar of rice on his desk that contained his poor phone. He knew the whole thing had been an accident, but it still pissed him. Sasha had come over early in the morning to take back the make-up he'd "borrowed" since she had a date later that night, but she'd stayed a while to talk about how things were going with Connie.

 

Apparently, when the time came, they decided they'd still be together even after she leaves for college. Two hours. Four hours. Ten hours. It didn't matter how far they were, they knew technology had their back once the itch to see one another came up. Sasha had said she knew Connie would always wait around for her and that she would never abuse that fact.

 

After too much heart-to-heart, they'd decided to watch old movies on his laptop to get rid of the mushy feelings, but somewhere during that time Jean had invested all his attention to Skeet Ulrich getting thrown out of a window by a witch that he hadn't noticed when Sasha had started messing with his phone's password lock screen. That's when things had gone downhill.

 

She'd never guessed his pattern lock before, so when she'd started snickering to herself, he should've guessed something wasn't right. He hadn't made the connection until she'd made a comment about his web history.

 

That's when the chase took place. They'd gone from his room, to down the stairs, to the living room, to the kitchen, back upstairs, and then into the dreaded bathroom. Then the Snapchat notification came. He might or might not have threatened her to not open it when she revealed it was a video from Marco. His threat pushed her into opening it and for a moment they'd grown quiet, waiting, but the second had passed quickly and then all they'd heard was Marco's voice singing to Ashlee Simpson.

 

Well. Squawking was a better word to describe the way he'd sounded, but Jean had liked every second of it. He knew he still had a chance to watch it if he took his phone back quickly, but when he had reached out to snatch it from Sasha's nasty fingers, he'd been clumsy in his rescue mission and it had slipped from both of their grips and into the opened toilet.

 

Okay, so maybe it wasn't _only_ Sasha's fault his phone had been in a jar of rice for almost a week now, but she was mostly to blame! She'd even offered to buy him a new one, but he had too much pride to let the murderer give him a new body.

 

Jean figured if he kept his phone in the jar long enough, it'd fix itself back to the way it was before. And since everyone was busy for the holidays, he wasn't in a hurry to see if it worked. Until now, that is. If things got awkward at dinner, his phone was his only social escape.

 

After sliding on his fancy pants, zipping it and buttoning the soon-to-be-tight button, he made his way towards his desk again. Jean stared at it for a second, wondering if he'd received any texts or calls that weren't from machines. He wondered if Marco had sent him anything.

 

"Nah, probably not," He said, fingers hastily fishing the phone out as rice sprinkled onto the carpet.

 

He was grossed out that his hands were touching where there'd been toilet water, but then his eyes brightened at the same time his phone did. It was alive! A sign of life was a good omen! Jean Frankirstein had revived the dead with nothing but dried swamp grass seeds and no haunting lightning storms!

 

The same screensaver greeted him with the same pattern lock -- he made a mental note to change that ASAP -- the only concerning detail was that the time and date were wrong. It most certainly wasn't December 20 at 10 PM, but he continued his inspection once he had unlocked his phone and discovered that that was the most his worries could find.

 

 _Bing! Bing! Bing!_ One notification after another, they buzzed into his hand. Emails that didn't matter, missed calls from robots, voicemails from wrong numbers, music apps telling him there was a new album out from a band he followed, games notifying his lack of playing and one, single message. From Marco.

 

Jean plopped down on his chair with his breath catching in his lungs. The message was sent so late at night it was actually morning. The morning after his phone's fatal accident.

 

**From: Marco**  
**\--Question 20, how much has Trost changed since I've been gone?**

 

It was a joke, he knew it, it was simple and straight to the point but something felt off about it. For one, Marco never wasted a question in their game. He always took it seriously even if Jean wanted to mess around and ask if he believed in the tooth fairy. He'd get a real answer all the time, and he'd get a real question, too. But this was not it.

 

**To: Marco**  
**\--can I call?**

 

Not even two minutes later, Jean was pressing his phone to his ear waiting for the other to pick up. He hoped he was overreacting. If everything was alright, he could play it off as 'just checking up' on him. It may be a little weird though, since he has yet to face Marco and his feelings and he didn't know the rules--if there were any--about keeping a boys heart on hold.

 

He was seconds away from hanging up due to shame, until heard the comfort of _that_ voice singing in his quickly emptying head.

 

"Hello? Jean?"

 

"Marco." Jean blurted, not saying anything else.

 

Marco was quiet on the line, but eventually noting that the other wasn't going to elaborate on that, he spoke up, "Yes, it's me. Everything okay?"

 

_Stupid! Stupid!_

 

"Yeah! Everything's cool here. But, um, I got your message...late. Sasha dropped my phone in the crapper and it's been in rice this whole week, ha-ha. But anyway. I got your message and I wanted to know if _you_ were okay. So. Are you okay?"

 

There was a chuckle on the other side of the line that made Jean thankful he was sitting down, "I'm fine, everything's fine. What makes you ask?"

 

"Ah, I dunno," He admitted, taking a spin in his chair, "It's just, your question was weird."

 

"What question?"

 

"The one--the one you sent on Satur--er Sunday. Asking if Trost was different."

 

"Oh. I forgot I sent that."

 

"Everything's still the same."

 

"Mm?"

 

"Here in Trost. Nothing's really changed. Except for a few things, but they're not so important."

 

"Oh, like what?"

 

"Sasha and Connie got married," Jean didn't know if it were the right moment to play pretend, but he had his friend back right now and didn't know when he'd get to be annoying again.

 

"Is that so?" Marco was playing along, motivating Jean to continue.

 

"Yeah, it was wild, you should've been there. They had a fifteen story wedding cake and had McDonald's cater. You should've seen the look on her family's, Armin and Krista's face, they were so embarrassed and hurt, but it was their wedding so what could they do?"

 

"Nothing."

 

"Nothing," Jean echoed, "And, let's see, what else happened? Oh yeah! I got a tattoo on my ass that says 'just peachy', the grass turned a permanent blue a couple days ago--it looks like an ocean out there, the school burned down and Annie quit boxing to pursue her lifelong dream of becoming a beauty pageant queen."

 

"You know she'd kill you if she heard you say that?" There was a smile in his words and Jean found it was contagious.

 

"Yeah, but you'd save me, right? Since-Since you know how to fight and all."

 

There was a pause, too long for it to not be noticeable, "I'd save you. She'd still kill me, but I'd save you."

 

"She wouldn't..."

 

The line went quiet after Marco's soft sound of disagreement. Jean panicked. An hour ago he'd been Mr. Suave, swooning his pillow best friend with silky words but now he was shoving socks in his mouth, making it dry and painful. He had no idea what to say when all he wanted was to shout that he was dying to see him.

 

"Marco?"

 

"Yeah?"

 

Jean spun around in his chair again and didn't stop it this time. The room became a puddle of colors and his stomach made knots from a hunger that didn't ask for food, "I miss you."

 

"You do?"

 

"Yeah, I do, you don't believe me?"

 

"Hmmm. I don't know. It depends."

 

"On what?"

 

"On..." He stopped, Jean gulped and was positive the other had heard it, but then he was back and sounded just as frightened as he felt, "Is it okay if I--if I ask how much?"

 

Jean knew he was being serious, but also joking--like if he wanted to know the real answer but wouldn't mind hearing horseshit either. Jean reminded himself again that they were in limbo, that all he needed to do was tell Marco how much he adored him to end where they were currently at, but he wouldn't do it over the phone. He was a hopeless romantic after all.

 

Still, he could allow a little of his feelings to show. It's not like he wanted them to be a secret anymore.

 

"Yeah, I guess you could ask."

 

"Okay," Marco sighed in relief. Jean could hear that smile again and couldn't help touching his own grinning lips, "How much do you miss me, Jean?"

 

The question thrilled him, he'd never get tired of hearing Marco say his name, and best of all they sounded like a real couple. He'd give anything to see what kind of expression his friend might've had when he'd asked it.

 

"I miss you so much it's making me kinda selfish. If I was smart enough I'd invented teleportation the day after you left."

 

"You are smart enough."

 

"Very funny."

 

Marco laughed, this time it sounded more like himself and it sent an ache to Jean's heart when he asked, "Would you like for me to come over?"

 

"Oh sure. Come walk from Jinae to Trost, 's not like it'll take you an entire month to do it."

 

"What if I said it'll take me five minutes? I've mastered the art of teleportation while you were speaking."

 

"Hooo, really?"

 

"Yup."

 

"Sounds like you miss me, too, Marco."

 

"I do. I think you know I do."

 

"I'm not convinced," If there was a cord on his phone, Jean would've been swirling it around his finger, "Maybe if you came over after this dinner with my mom's man friend then _maybe_ I'd be convinced."

 

"Deal. I'll be there in--is two hours fine with you?"

 

"Suuuure, sure. Two hours is plenty of time for you to make it."

 

Marco chuckled, "Want me to bring anything over?"

 

Jean shook his head even though he couldn't see. This teasing hurt, "No. Just you is good enough."

 

"Okay, nine o'clock it is. Leave one of your windows unlocked."

 

Although they were just kidding, sometime after their call had ended and Jean had finished fixing himself for their guests, he threw open both of his blue curtains and stared outside. It was pitch black, the reflection showing how blessedly spoiled he'd been able to be around Marco and only now realizing it. Before the sound of the doorbell rang, Jean had unlatched all the locks on his windows.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

It'd only taken Jean five minutes to know he hated Daniel. He was two inches shorter than him with a body that hugged his thick clothes. He had a grizzly dark brown beard attached to his jaw that by some miracle hadn't caught the lasagna sauce he'd been slurping. He wore thick glasses and had an average haircut. The man _screamed_ the aura of a father that could only be described as overbearing. 

 

His poor child was the physical evidence of how dadly he was.

 

Chris, the son, was dressed in khaki pants with a belt so tightly buckled around his waist that he barely touched his food in fear that the smallest amount that'd enter his belly would be a strain against the leather. His blue checkered button-up was tucked underneath those pants and as if that weren't bad enough, the sleeves were short and fell a few inches from his bony shoulders.

 

He also wore light up shoes--despite being older than seven--and when he had walked from the entrance to the living room where the 'grown-ups' had talked before eating, his laces had come undone and Jean, every now and then, would glance back at the kid to find that he'd still be staring at the laces after fifteen whole minutes before they'd moved to the dining room.

 

The kid was weird, but he was alright. Not that he'd spoken much--or at all really, but he was better than other nine year olds who've already adapted nasty know-it-all attitudes. The father, though, Jean couldn't stand and he had no idea why.

 

"So then I see Melissa gaping like a fish out of water when I come back from the freezer--and she stands in the middle of the kitchen and _bellows_ ," Daniel was saying to his mother after finishing another slurp, "I asked her if she'd seen a ghost or worse--a _rat_! But then her face turns red and she yells that Sam Smith is in our hotel restaurant asking for pistachio ice-cream!"

 

Jean's mother laughs, her cheeks are shiny like apples and it looks painful to him, "Did you see him? Was it true? Sometimes Melissa's stories can get carried away."

 

"Oh trust me, I know. I did not believer her for one second that Sam Smith was in this town. Not even the dead visit this place, you know?"

 

She nodded her head as if she really did know, "I think I heard the other housekeepers talking about it the day I came back, but I didn't pay them any mind. What a horrible week to be sick, I missed seeing a celebrity."

 

"Oh that's alright," Daniel comforted, staring at her when he'd said it. _Shameless_ , Jean thought, "We'll probably get Justin Timberlake to come next time."

 

"Jean absolutely _loves_ Justin Timberlake! Don't you, honey?"

 

Emphasis on love, he noticed.

 

Like hell he was about to dive into their conversation. Of all the other things they could've included him in, it just had to be Justin Timberlake, didn't it?! She might as well have allowed him to wear a rainbow flag around his neck with dick shaped eyeliner, yelling _HEY DANIEL GUESS WHAT I'M GAY AND I OBVI WANT TO BE PART OF YOUR LAME STORY BECAUSE YOU MENTIONED JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE--MY FIRST OBSESSION--LET'S BE PALS_ as a response.

 

Oh no, he was not going to give Daniel, or even his mother, the pleasure of that--not in a million years.

 

Jean stuffed his mouth with liquefied potato, letting his fire cook him only on the inside, and grinned, "Yes."

 

And that was the end of his input on the topic. His mother wasn't a quitter, though, it was she who'd passed on that power to him, and tried many times to mash his interests with Daniel in hopes that they could bond.

 

While everyone but Chris had dove in for seconds she'd asked:

 

"Daniel has a motorcycle, remember when you begged me for one last year, Jean?"

 

"I _do_ , I do remember. Do you remember how your housekeeping buddy _Brandon_ got in a motorcycle accident and broke all of his fingers a few months ago?"

 

While Daniel had poured himself a glass of the wine he'd brought, she'd asked:

 

"Daniel owns a small movie theater next to the thrift store in 104th street. Maybe you should check it out with your friends one day?"

 

"It's nothing fancy," Daniel had added, eyeing the amount he was pouring, "And it only plays old, old movies. Very old. Only seniors come around and kids these days aren't too interested in them anymore."

 

Jean had smiled, "You're right. I'm not."

 

While Chris had gone to the restroom, she'd asked:

 

"Did you know Daniel used to play football when he was in high school? He also played basketball, _track_ and golf."

 

"Golf? My gym teacher says men only play golf 'cause they can't get their balls near any other holes."

 

He'd regretted saying that one for about a heartbeat thanks to the murderous face his mother gave him, but then he thought it was worth it when Daniel had choked on his spit. At least it hadn't been a slurp. He was glad the kid hadn't been present during that one.

 

Dinner continued without him being acknowledged any further. Only the real adults filled the room with their real adult problems while the childish and the child picked at their empty plates. Jean tried a couple times to speak to Chris, but they were on opposite sides of the table and he never responded to him when Jean asked why he wasn't eating more of his mother's good food.

 

After most bellies were full, and after Daniel had so kindly helped Jean and his mother clear the leftovers and packed them in the fridge, they all sat around the table once again with a cake Daniel himself had baked. It was raspberry vanilla with glaze and blueberries on top, and no matter how much the man made his blood simmer, Jean didn't say no to dessert.

 

"The drinks! Almost forgot the drinks. Would you like some hot chocolate, Chris?"

 

Jean watched his mother flutter out of her chair and behind the kid, squinting at his reaction. Chris stared at her when she placed a hand on his shoulder, then stared at his father without giving a response. He didn't look afraid, but there was nervousness and discomfort.

 

At first, Jean felt irritated that the kid hadn't spoken not even once to him or his charming mom throughout the entire evening, but then he felt pity because maybe he was just as uncomfortable as him about seeing his parent with someone who wasn't family or friend. Now there's a bond he could see developing.

 

He was about to brush the dust off of his 'friendly voice' and repeat what his mother had asked when all of a sudden Daniel started moving his hands and fingers in the air so Chris could see. Jean had no idea what it said, but he knew what it was. Sign language.

 

_I'm the biggest asshole. The size of a golf hole. No. The size of a golf course._

 

Once his hands had stopped signing, Jean saw the first smile on the boy's face that night as he nodded crazily to his mother for hot chocolate.

 

"He's a little shy about the hearing aids," Daniel explained, "He doesn't like wearing them around new people much."

 

"That's perfectly fine, he's such a good boy. I'll go get the drinks."

 

"I'll help." Jean shot up from his chair and followed his mother into the kitchen.

 

It was warmer in here and he could feel his dress shirt starting to stick to the back of his neck, but no one wanted to say no to hot drinks because then it'd be rude and Jean had filled everyone enough with rudeness that they didn't want to create even more.

 

He followed his mother to the stove, hovering next to her shoulder, "Mom, why didn't you tell me the kid--why didn't you mention that Chris was deaf? I was trying to talk to him earlier and thought he was straight up ignoring me."

 

She pulled four mugs from the cabinet, "It was never mentioned to me."

 

"Are you serious? Why not?"

 

"Same reason I don't go around telling the world you're gay, sweetheart. It's not anybody else's business."

 

"But isn't that a little different?"

 

"I don't know," She confessed, thinking as she poured, "He said his son was shy."

 

"Yeah, and what is he? Ashamed? Is that why he didn't give you the heads up?"

 

His mother stopped her work and gave him another look. It wasn't anger. It was disappointment.

 

"That isn't fair, Jean, only he knows what's best for his son. What is happening to you tonight? Why are you being so mean to him? Did he say something to you while I wasn't looking or did he offend you in some way?"

 

"No." Jean looked away, "But I don't like him. He's too nice."

 

"Too nice! Now my son doesn't want me to meet a nice man!" She went back to her pouring, this time with more energy than before.

 

"That's not what I'm saying! It's just weird, okay? He gives you free food for years, hasn't dated anyone for _seven_ after his wife split--yes, I was listening during that part--and... and... and," And he had nothing else and she knew it. Well, he did, but something told him he shouldn't mention his theory about Daniel probably having dead bodies underneath his house.

 

"You're being the biggest, big baby right now Jean Kirstein and I won't hear any more of it. When we go back in there, you are going to be _nice_ or you are going to be _quiet_. He hasn't done anything to deserve your attitude."

 

Jean finally realized her feelings for the man and gasped, "You like him!"

 

"He's a sweet person and for the life of me I don't know what he could've done that made you dislike him in under twenty-four hours, but yes. I do have a slight interest in him, Jeanbo."

 

For some reason, her truth sent chills down his spine, "Well, don't expect me to call him Papa, 'cause I won't do it."

 

"I don't expect you to do anything," Her pouring stopped again, this time all mugs were filled and a sadness filled her face that made his heart throb in fresh guilt for being the biggest, big baby shit, "This is about your father, isn't it? Oh, I should've known."

 

"What?"

 

"You're angry. Sweetie, I told you I've been where you've been and I know what you're feeling. When my mother brought home the first man she dated after years of being alone, I was angry, too. Now that I think about it, I was a lot like you."

 

Jean didn't believe for a second that his sweet ol' ma ever had a mean bone in her body, but when she fixed her eyes on him, he could almost see the history of her pain, "No--that's not why-- _that man_ is a piece of shit, why would I care about him right now? He's irrelevant. A speck of dust in the air. He's nothing."

 

"I'm sure psychologists have an explaination for what I'm trying to get at. But what I _can_ say for sure is that I know I needed closure, I had lots of questions, and when I found my father years later after my mother remarried, I received them. It doesn't work for everyone, it did for me. It might work for you, too."

 

"You want me to _talk_ to the sperm donor?" Jean asked in disbelief, as if he'd never heard that suggestion before. Usually he heard it around this time of year. Usually it didn't make him panic this much.

 

"I think it could help you."

 

"Help me get gastritis, yeah!"

 

"Jeanbo."

 

"No mom, I don't want to 'talk' to a stranger," He felt bile in the back of his throat as the next question rolled out of his tongue, "How could I, anyway? I don't have his stupid number."

 

"But I do. And if you happen to change your mind, I want you to know it'd have to be in person. Not over the phone. You can't reach him that way."

 

"What the fu--what the heck does that mean?"

 

Both unaware of how loud they'd been speaking, only now began to whisper. Ms. Kirstein leaned forward with two mugs in her hands, passing them to Jean as she grabbed the other two, "Now isn't the time to talk about it. But please, Jean, don't be mad anymore. It's not healthy for you."

 

"I'm not mad," He stubbornly said, "I just don't trust Mr. Goody-Goody and Mr. Mystery Sperm Donor--who's favorite magic trick is to disappear."

 

She looked like she'd understood something then, but said nothing of it. Remembering Daniel and Chris, she decided to keep the calm they had before it got too out of hand. What might happen next could wait for tomorrow if her son slept on the thought of speaking to his father. But knowing him so well, that possibility would most likely happen years into the future.

 

Jean fixed his face--like how she'd asked without actually having to ask--once they were seated again. His nerves were still riled up, but not because he had to watch Daniel and his mom be friends, but because he was confused and annoyed with himself.

 

Taking the first sip of his chocolate, Jean could admit he knew how big of a jerk he'd been. The drink burned the tip of his tongue--which was well deserved--but the fire felt good running down his throat and into his bloated belly. He'd made the hot chocolate this time and he was proud of how it'd turned out.

 

He kept telling himself through long sips that Daniel wasn't here to claim he'd saved his mother from loneliness, to take his place of fixing squeaky doors, loose pipes or leaking ceilings after all the time Jean had put to learn how to do it himself. He wasn't here to take her away or to send him off to boarding school while they all lived happily ever after. And most importantly, he wasn't here just to ditch his mother tomorrow because a man who waits for four years doesn't get discouraged after one bad day.

 

No. Daniel was fine. He was the man version of his mother, which was somewhat creepy, but like how he'd promised himself so many days ago, he would not deny her having a chance with romance. It was a damn good thing he'd caught his nasty attitude the same day he'd dished it out. Thinking about it, Jean realized he had plenty of experience now in dealing with guilt and how to stop it before letting it manifest into something worse.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

After dessert had vanished with a small portion remaining on the dining room table, after the last drops of cocoa dripped into tongues, after painfully awkward 'goodbyes' and 'see you later's from Daniel, and after Ms. Kirstein had let out an exhausted yet satisfied sigh, Jean finally felt his shoulders drop. He hadn't noticed he'd been tense all night, but now he felt it uncoiling from his body like a snake.

 

"That could've gone... worse." She said, taking off her low heels.

 

They were still standing by the door even though Daniel and Chris were gone. He'd stood there watching her the whole time, waiting for the second round of lectures even though he'd behaved well enough after her first one. It looked like he wouldn't be getting one, though, and he felt proud of himself a second time for it because he'd even went so far as to give Daniel a man-hug before he left as an apology for his behavior.

 

"You always know how to host a good evening."

 

"I do, don't I?"

 

It was an inside joke. The only guests they ever had these days were cats pooping in their backyard. Instead of serving warm drinks to them, Ms. Kirstein served them the water hose.

 

"I think he'll be back," Jean said, hoping he didn't sound like the kid he felt.

 

"I think he'll be back, too, but not soon. My mistake was bringing him to the house before giving you enough time to adjust to the idea of him."

 

"What? I am adjusted, you gave me a month's head start to get used to it!"

 

She raised an eyebrow, she didn't believe him for shit.

 

"Okay, fine, so it took me a couple hours to warm up to the man, but aren't I like that with everyone? I got used to him towards the end, didn't I?"

 

"Yes, I did notice, but I thought it was because of what I said to you."

 

"It was, but I don't hate him, Mom. I was just being an asshole and--look--I'll even go to his movie theater with my friends to prove that I think he's... great."

 

She crossed her arms, testing him in silence as she waited for her son to take it all back. But he didn't and so she gave in, "Okay. If you don't burn down the theater while you're in there, I will believe you."

 

Jean should've seen that one coming. He couldn't really blame her being suspicious of his suddenly different opinion on the man, so he agreed to her sarcasm and they called it a night. While she yawned on her way upstairs, Jean slipped into the empty kitchen.

 

He watched the clock on the microwave turn from 11:10 to 11:11, making a quick wish as he gathered up the leftover berry cake that'd been set on the counter and headed up to his room.

 

He wouldn't be going to sleep anytime soon--his sleeping schedule had been wrecked beyond repair ever since the third day of their break and he always got hungry after two in the morning. It was a pain to play spy at that time when it came to looking for snacks, he figured Mom wouldn't mind him eating the rest of dessert.

 

"Goodnight!" Jean yelled to his mother through her closed door at the end of the hall, it could also be translated to _Sorry I was a jerk_.

 

"Goodnight, Jeanbo!" She yelled back, but really she was saying _I forgive you because I love you_.

 

He grinned at himself, thankful for tonight's ending and for not ruining it even though he could have. Which a tiny fraction of him did, but he'd had a bit of self control now. He was growing up with baby steps.

 

Jean twisted the knob of his door with his free hand and stepped inside, drowning himself in darkness. Instantly, he felt how _freezing_ it was in his room, he almost questioned why until he remembered he'd left the windows unlocked.

 

He froze and ran that thought around his head again.

 

Sure, he was dumb enough to unlock his windows even though their ladder stood right next to them due to the previous day where he'd cleaned gutters, but he wasn't dumb enough to leave one of them wide open. Which they were.

 

His curtains were lightly flowing against the wind coming in--blue and barely visible in the lightless night and it made Jean uneasy. He quickly searched for the switch on the wall and flicked it up as soon as he'd found it. The light blinded him, but he quickly recovered and looked around his room for missing objects or worse--murderers.

 

With his feet glued to where he stood, his eyes searched his top bunk, his bottom bunk, the floor, and the crack in his opened closet. There was no one with a knife waiting for him to notice them, that's why, when he saw the broad back of a man in the corner of his room where his desk was located, Jean let out the mother of all screams.

 

Or--at least that's what he'd hoped for when he yanked open his mouth, but he was so afraid that nothing but a choked squeak whistled out of his useless yapper. This, however, was enough for the figure to hear perfectly. Their body had been slumped, arms on the desk with their head laying on top. They'd been sleeping.

 

Jean watched the man's head slowly rise, he looked side to side as if he didn't know where he was, then carefully they began to turn around. Jean's breath caught, holding onto the clear wrapped cake for dear life, when the their eyes met. His were hazel with dark blotches of red and purple underneath, exhausted and ghostly. But his lips gave Jean the brightest of smiles that contradicted their tiredness.

 

"Teleportation." Was all Marco said to him, but Jean was still having a hard time recovering from thinking an ax murderer had broken in to kill him. The other caught on and spun out of the chair, "Crap. Did I scare you?

 

"How...?"

 

"How'd I get here so fast?" Marco asked for him, taking a couple slow steps in his direction, "It's a long story. Short version is I've actually been back for a while now. I just didn't tell anyone."

 

"Why...?"

 

"Why didn't I say anything to you?" His smile wavered, "I didn't want to bother you since I knew you were going to do something with your mom and her friend."

 

"No."

 

"No?"

 

Jean retracted his nails from the cake and decided to stop making the other read his mind, "I mean, you're not a bother."

 

"That's always good to know."

 

The boys stared at one another--one thinking he was dreaming, taking in how much the other filled the room with his bulky winter gear, burning desperate holes in that familiar face like if at any second he'd be whisked away, while the other spoke to him with his body--restless fingers saying they wanted to touch him, unblinking eyes saying he was stunning in his holiday clothes, not wanting to waste a second of it.

 

They knew it, with their eyes and with their own silent conversation, that they'd been missed. Cake be damned, Jean threw that sweetness to the bottom bunk mattress in return for something sweeter--Marco.

 

"Oh!" Marco hadn't expected to be crashed into, and Jean enjoyed every bit of his shock.

 

Almost automatically, he felt arms returning his feelings, engulfing him in a chilled jacket that stunned his skin, but he's never felt this warm or protected before. Murderer. Ha. There was no murderer here. These arms could break Jean in two if they wanted, but they were forever attached to wings and angels never harmed anyone.

 

"Why on Earth were you napping on my desk in the dark with the damn windows down? Are you out of your mind? Did you want to give me a heart attack?" Jean's voice was muffled in Marco's chest, squeezing him tighter to let him know he wasn't angry.

 

Marco's hand found their way to his hair. They raked through the soft strands and Jean heard himself sigh in content, "I missed you, too, Jean."

 

His name on his tongue was troubled. And once again, Jean had forgotten the relationship they were in and gently backed away. He looked up at Marco's anxiousness, noting the careful way his body was moving and the way his expression said he understood that Jean now remembered how he felt about him.

 

"How-How long you staying over?"

 

_So I can tell you I love you_

 

"However long you want me to." He responded, in seriousness.

 

Jean returned the answer with the same amount, "You can stay all night, if you want, bu-but if it'll get you in trouble--"

 

"No, don't worry. My mom thinks I'm staying over a friend's house already. Well, I guess I'm not really lying since you are a friend."

 

That one stung, he'll admit it, but it was fine because no matter how stubborn his bravery was being right now, Marco would not be leaving this bedroom a single man tonight. Jean's only dilemma was giving him a proper confession, one like in the movies that he'll remember forever like how Jean would always remember his.

 

"Friend? I'm your _best_ friend, there's a difference," Jean shivered, finally remembering the opened windows and went to go close them.

 

He moved the haunting curtains aside, slamming the glass shut. The noise was loud, but his mother's sink was running and in this old house, it was loud enough so that anyone downstairs could hear it just as good as you could hear an action moving playing on volume 40.

 

"See, I was afraid of the noise when I came up here. That's why I didn't close it," Marco admitted, taking a seat on the bunk bed next to the perfectly safe cake, "I didn't really think things through."

 

"'M not gonna lie, I'm very impressed you broke into my house."

 

"I didn't break in, you invited me."

 

"No, you invited _yourself_ ," Jean took a seat on the other side of the cake and took a good look at his friend again. This time more than just his tired face.

 

His dark hair was disheveled and ... short. He'd gotten a hair cut and Jean instantly missed the waves, but he wasn't complaining about the new look either. Marco was in sweats, socks and in his signature sandal slippers. His jacket was halfway unzipped, revealing a black worn out shirt underneath. PJ's.

 

"Were you sleeping when I called?"

 

"No, I was... " Marco's mouth twisted, his gaze shifted from Jean to the floor then to the cake, "Oh. Can I have some?"

 

"Daniel made it."

 

"Who?"

 

"Mom's new boyfriend."

 

"Is he bad? If he is, I won't eat it, but I'm guessing he's not so bad since you brought it up here."

 

Jean frowned, pushing the dessert towards Marco, "He was cool tonight, I guess. It's still to early to tell, but Mom likes him and I can't do anything to change that. Which reminds me, we have to go to his movie theater some day."

 

Marco unwrapped the cake before taking a bite, talking with enthusiasm while he chewed, "He owns a movie theater?"

 

"Don't get too excited, he says it only plays old movies. I'm guessing black and white and full of cowboys. Wait, you never told me what you were doing before--"

 

"I like cowboys."

 

"Huh?"

 

"Cowboy movies, I mean. Like with deserts, guns and horses."

 

Jean tried not to think of his nickname--because there was no way Horseface plus Horse equaled Marco saying he liked him--but dammit that's what his brain was telling him and he couldn't help the flutter in his belly as he moved his focus on how soft his sheets were.

 

"Cowboys are okay."

 

For the next few minutes, Jean tried and failed to make Marco the spotlight of their conversation. He would successfully flip the topic around on him and dart any and all questions thrown his way. At first, all Jean wanted was a simple explanation as to why he'd come home so quickly, but he noticed the crinkle in Marco's eyes and the way he'd swallowed and so he'd let that topic happily die.

 

Instead he shot simpler questions, ones that had nothing to do with Jinae, like: who's house were you staying at? Why didn't you spend Thanksgiving with your family--he'd answered that one, which was that they didn't celebrate it either. He'd asked how his vacation was going, again on why he didn't tell anyone he was back, and finally if he'd purposefully sent him a video of himself singing to Ashlee Simpson.

 

That one had turned Marco into a mess of tripping words, but he'd found a way to not answer the story behind that by shoving the last chunk of glazed berry cake into his mouth.

 

Something was wrong. Jean had felt it when he'd seen the color underneath Marco's eyes, but hadn't wanted to assume. But the lengths Marco was going to to avoid any mention of his trip, it was enough evidence for Jean to know his friend was not okay.

 

He was fine being out of the loop--he knew how hard it was speaking about your long absent father without wanting to punch a hole in a wall. But Marco must have had it much worse than him if all of his excitement to see his father was easily being buried by sugary dessert.

 

All Jean could think of to do, all Jean _could_ do, was be a distraction. He would be the best one if that was all he needed him to be.

 

"Hey, let's do something. Wanna watch YouTube videos? Movies? Go walk around the neighborhood? Jack a car? Search for vampires?"

 

Marco picked up the empty cake plate and stood up with smile that said he was grateful, "It's really cold outside and unfortunately, I left my car stealing gear at home."

 

"You live, like, five minutes away."

 

"You really want to steal a car?"

 

"No, I'd rather watch something, too."

 

Marco stayed rooted where he stood, "Can I ask you something?"

 

"Shoot."

 

_I sound like a cowboy_

 

"Your scars from the ant bites, do they still hurt?"

 

"My what?"

 

"Your ant bites, did they bother you? I'm only wondering because Micah, um, he stepped on an ant pile--a small one--over in Jinae and it looks like he's going to scar pretty bad."

 

"Oh, no they don't hurt or anything like that, but the skin where my scars are at are actually more sensitive. It's annoying but it's manageable. He'll live."

 

"Okay, I'll let him know."

 

Marco let the plate clink on the wooden desk where Jean's romance-lines rested an inch away. The notebook was placed in the middle of the desk, where Marco's sleeping head had been when Jean had turned on the lights, and for the life of him he couldn't remember if that's where he'd originally left it or if...

 

His heart stopped. Had Marco read through it? Had Marco seen all the cheese he'd stolen from the moon and transferred into words on his paper?!

 

Jean wanted to claw the skin out of his face, but then a thought appeared to him in heavenly hope. The notebook was closed and there was no way Sweet Innocent Marco was the nosy type like Sasha. There was _no way_ he would've read through the pages without his permission. Yeah. No way he would ever do that. Not Marco.

 

"You okay?" Marco asked as he made his way back. The way he jumped back to bed made them both wobble, "You look a little flushed."

 

"Wh-Who me? No--actually, yeah. I had a bit of wine at dinner, that's probably--that's probably why."

 

"Oh really? But you're not drunk, are you?"

 

Jean let out a ghastly laugh, far too forced, and hopped out of bed. He climbed the stairs to the top bunk to retrieve his laptop, but he still couldn't face Marco when he settled back down.

 

"I think you're getting pink-er, Jean."

 

"Yep." He shrugged, feeling the heat starting to pulse thanks to Marco's pointing it out. If he wasn't so preoccupied with controlling the blood in his face, he would've noticed the others smirk, "It might be hitting me a bit late is all. So what-whatcha wanna watch? Name something. Name anything." _Please_.

 

"Okay, but if you start slurring I'll go get you something to drink."

 

"...Thanks."

 

Marco shot him a grin, still sitting on the far end of the bed. Jean didn't think anything of it and made the move to scoot closer. He wished he had drank some of that wine now, but being around Marco was intoxicating enough.

 

"There's this song I really like right now. You might not like it since it's folksy, but do you want to hear it anyway?"

 

"You forget I liked some of the music you played during our mini road trip."

 

"I thought you were just being nice."

 

Without having to spare him a glance, Jean flicked Marco on the ear, "I'm not that nice. I told you which songs I _didn't_ like."

 

"True. But you are nice."

 

"You're probably talking about my twin, Jean-Clause. He likes to do charity work and save kittens from tall trees."

 

Marco giggled, "He sounds amazing and all--but I prefer...never mind. So the name of the song, are you ready?"

 

Intoxicating, see? Jean struggled to match the right fingers onto the appropriate keys. Marco was going to say 'you--I prefer _you_ ', you, you, you, you. He wanted to smile at how hard it was for the other to keep his emotions for him invisible, he wanted to chuck the laptop into the air and tell Marco he preferred him over all the movies, music and cake in world, but it wasn't the right time. Not yet.

 

"So what-what's the name?"

 

" _Like a Movie_ by--you want me to type it?"

 

Jean nodded, noticing the way Marco was still too far. Not even their shoulders were touching and yet he somehow managed to write the name and artist of the song down. He'd never heard of them before, and the views were barely over three hundred, but once Marco had clicked on the video and the melody began playing, Jean carefully listened.

 

One minute and thirteen seconds in and he'd transformed into what butter became when it was left out during summer when the sun was at its strongest. It was a love song, and it went without saying that it was dedicated to him, he knew it in his beating heart it was. Maybe Horseface plus Horses didn't equal Marco saying he liked him, but Jean's known love for movies plus a song referencing to watching your loved one like a movie _did_ equal a silent reminder from Marco.

 

It made sense to him and that's all that mattered.

 

He knew he was right after the next few songs. One after the other, they played in the air with sugar Jean could almost taste on the tip of his burned tongue and with words that never let his cheeks cool. Marco made no comment on his music, his nervousness almost palpable, so Jean decided to give him a thank you.

 

"I have one I want you to hear, too." Jean said with his voice betraying him. It'd cracked.

 

"Is it hardcore?"

 

"No, but it's still good."

 

"If you like it, I'm sure it is."

 

Jean got the feeling Marco wasn't expecting a reply to his silent musical flirting. Not even when his song started playing did he peep one word or give him a glance of disbelief or relief. It made him wonder if Marco honestly didn't have a clue as to how he felt about him.

 

Drew Holdcomb & The Neighbors tried telling Marco Jean would pick him over anything if it meant they could stick together, Iron & Wine and Ben Bridwell tried explaining they could figure things out as they went along, and Majical Cloudz desperately sang Jean was head over heels for the boy.

 

But the messages didn't go through. Marco finally spoke up after Jean's third song finished, letting out a soft "Wow". But it was a powerful little 'wow', and if he had figured out Jean was trying to come on to him, he didn't show it not one bit.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

They didn't do anything significant after the videos. Somewhere along the way, the boys had strayed from love songs and they'd somehow ended up watching AMV's about a show neither of them had watched before. It had something to do with giants and uniforms with stylish boots, but honestly it looked like a disaster.

 

Marco had pointed out that one of them resembled Jean, but Jean hadn't agreed and that was the end of that.

 

Around two in the morning, in the middle of watching a tutorial on how to make sugar wax, Jean's stomach had groaned for food. He'd stopped paying attention to everything Marco had clicked on two videos ago, lost in thought on how to execute his plan tonight without making it sound as rushed and hurried as he felt like doing it.

 

"You're hungry." Marco pointed out with slight amusement, "Was it the gooey sugar and honey that did it?"

 

"My sweet tooth isn't _that_ strong."

 

"You were going to eat half a cake by yourself, Jean."

 

"Yes, and I would've gotten away with it if it wasn't for you and your meddling stomach."

 

Marco laughed an airy laugh, he was good at remembering to stay quiet but Jean wouldn't have cared if he'd forgotten. He was being a good distraction like how he'd wanted--hearing that laughter meant he was doing good.

 

"Want me to sneak out and get you something?" Marco asked, "How does strawberry pancakes sound? I could get you that and some scrambled eggs, bacon and hash browns down at Mike's."

 

His gut answered for him, but Jean shook his head. Something told him he wouldn't be coming back if he left--or rather, he'd say he couldn't stay anymore once the delivery was made.

 

"You spend way too much money on me, I'll go find crackers downstairs."

 

"I do not spend too much money on you. And besides, you can't put a price tag on good food."

 

"Oh look," Jean pointed at the screen while he made his way out of the bed, "The good part's about to come, she's about to wax her legs. Tell me if it looks painful."

 

He left Marco there without waiting for a reply, being as quiet as he could be going downstairs and into the kitchen. Having lived in that house as long as he has, he would've thought he'd memorized all the danger zones, but nope. He squeaked his way around the house like if he had rats on his feet that cried every time he walked.

 

The cabinets were sugar and salt free--unless he craved to have the salt-shaker for a snack--which he didn't. But in the pantry he luckily found himself three PB & J cracker packs, two Twinkies and a half empty bag of donut holes.

 

"I need..."

 

He debated whether he should get ice old milk or room temperature hot chocolate. The chocolate only won because it was the first time he'd made it and he wanted to see if Marco liked it. Marco. What the hell was Jean doing with him. It wouldn't be long before they'd pass out and he _still_ hadn't done a single thing.

 

Simply talking like if nothing had happened between them felt like an itch you couldn't find. They had _kissed_ for fucks sake, he should be kissing him right now! Jean leaned against a counter with a sigh, thinking of Marco and putting himself in his shoes.

 

 _This must be hard on him_ , was his first epiphany. His second was, _I'm making this hard on him_.

 

Snacks and a mug of room temperature chocolate later, Jean left the kitchen, walked up the stairs feather light and entered his room. Marco was still there, sitting on his bed and not climbing out the window to disappear into the night.

 

"You need help with that?" Marco offered, already making his way out of the bed.

 

In the blink of an eye, he'd already taken the mug from his grip. Their fingers never touching.

 

"We--we need to talk."

 

"It hurt."

 

"What?"

 

"The waxing. She said it hurt, but she also said you get used to it."

 

"No, not the--that's not what I meant."

 

"About what then?"

 

Jean dumped the treats on the bed, his legs were trembling and he didn't know if it was because of what he was about to say or if it was because the house was as cold as ever. He then realized he was still in his Thanksgiving fancy clothes and moved to his closet. There was no way in hell he was going to be nervous _and_ uncomfortable.

 

He'd only dressed this way for his mother. Speaking to Marco about what his heart couldn't shut up about, he had to be himself. He had to feel like himself.

 

He stripped his thick pants, letting the irritable dress shirt cover what laid underneath, "We have to talk about... about you and me."

 

"Uh, um, does it have to be _right now_?"

 

"Yes. Just as soon as I get out of this."

 

His new found determination was an enemy. It always was. Not wanting to waste an entire minute unbuttoning all the small buttons on his shirt, Jean undid only the first three before trying to pull it over his head. He focused on making the movement swift like how the guys in the commercials do, but his limbs were full of jitters and the hole he'd made proved to be too small. He was stuck, arms hanging forward and out like a cartoon zombie.

 

" _Shit_." Jean would've hurled himself out that window if he could.

 

"Need help?"

 

He tried to nod, but instead his whole upper torso decided to move along with it and he could just picture himself looking like an idiot doing stand up crunches with zombie arms--and God, he felt like a fool.

 

Marco's movements could be heard. He set the mug down on the desk, then made careful steps towards Jean with what he hoped wasn't reluctance.

 

"Sometimes, Jean, you can be very, very... you."

 

 _Pop_. Marco undid one of his buttons instead of yanking the damn thing right out of his skin, and for that, Jean was grateful. It gave him time to let the humility slip out of his face.

 

 _Pop_. Another button. With his head forced to look down, Jean could see his bare feet and Marco's. He'd taken his slippers off hours ago, but not his jacket.

 

 _Pop_. With the third button done, Marco stepped back to give him his space. He even went so far as to turn around and stare at the wall instead of him, which made things weirder than if he'd straight up gawked at him. There should've been laughter and jokes at his clumsiness, not hard silences that made even the air outside feel warm.

 

Jean let his shirt fall to the floor, panic and rejection filled him as he stood there in his underwear. If he thought too hard, he'd make himself cry. Quickly he found his sweats through clean but unfolded piles of clothes, slipping on a hoodie rather than a shirt. He couldn't move after that.

 

"Why," He cleared his throat, "Why're you being _not_ you?"

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"Quit doing that. You keep answering my questions with more questions."

 

Marco's head bowed but he didn't turn, "I don't want you to rush."

 

"It's just a shirt, Marco, who cares? I rush these kinds of things all the time."

 

_And you've seen my nipples already. Nothing new there to see._

 

He saw Marco's shoulder tense, "I wasn't talking about your shirt, exactly."

 

"Then what... oh. You mean about us."

 

"Yeah I'm guessing that's what you had in mind when you said we had to talk, but let's not--because, you know, it hasn't been a week yet and I don't want you to feel pressured to give me answer just because I'm here. I'm still your friend, if you want me to be, and I'll wait for you to sort things out."

 

"I don't need anymore time, I'm ready right now."

 

The other said nothing, and in his silence Jean got an answer.

 

"You don't wanna talk, do you?"

 

"...Not yet," He admitted, still refusing to face him, "I'm not going to lie, I didn't expect for this to be so hard. To be so close to you and not being able to talk like we should, but it'll be harder if you happened to change your mind tomorrow or the day after because you didn't have enough to time to think things through."

 

"But I already know!" He knew he shouldn't be yelling, but he couldn't help it, "I already know, I've been knowing. And I think maybe you do, too."

 

"No. I don't. I think I know what you _think_ you want, but people change their minds. My feelings for you haven't changed, Jean, I didn't come here expecting anything and I'm sorry I'm being different towards you. Even if we find that we can't be friends after all this, I'll still be happy knowing we had something."

 

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

 

The snarl in his tight throat made the other finally turn around in worry, but he said nothing so Jean continued.

 

"Why are you speaking like that? Like if I'm going to say we can't be friends anymore? That I'd rather we quit what we have and go back to how it was before the school year started?"

 

Just saying the possibility of it happening made his eyes sting. And then Jean realized with a hard blow that this was it. This _had_ to be it. This was his punishment for all the years he'd pestered Marco. He would've laughed at the irony of it if it didn't hurt so much.

 

Jean placed a hand on his heart, ready for it to shatter if Marco decided not to pursue his own emotions for some incredibly self-torturing reason. He couldn't help the misery in his voice, "Do you not trust me?"

 

"That's not it."

 

"Then did you--did you change your mind?"

 

"No! I said I still--I haven't changed my mind, Jean."

 

"Then what's wrong? Why don't you want to talk about it? I mean, you should know how I've felt about you all these years. I'm not a hard person to read--even our friends have probably noticed it, too."

 

"I don't understand."

 

"How long have we known each other, Marco?"

 

His brows furrowed at the question, "Eight years?"

 

"And how long do you think I've been noticing you for?"

 

"I ... I don't know."

 

Jean searched his face for lies, but found none. He took two long strides towards his dense, lost, humble, frightened Marco and sandwhiched his hands to either side of his face. Their eyes never once strayed from one another when he finally said it.

 

"Listen to me well, Marco Bott, 'cause I'm only gonna say this a million times after tonight," His heart took the reigns from there on out, "I fell in love with you the first day I saw you, and the first day wasn't the instant you looked at me in Dr. Zoe's class after all those years of tip-toeing around each other, but shit that was wonderful, too, and I can still feel what it'd done to me.

 

"The first time was since way before then, since before I uttered a single word at you. Your hair was parted to the side and you had on overalls, it was love at first sight--I know it was--can you believe that actually exists? Because I sure as hell didn't realize it until now... I don't deserve to feel what you're making me feel, but please trust me. Know that I've thought long and hard about this moment because, I love you and I've loved you and I won't change my mind today or tomorrow."

 

What Jean had expected were questions to clarify everything he'd just admitted to. What he got instead was a single dry sob that made him jump in surprise. Marco's large eyes were glistening but no tears fell. His chin was dimpled, trying its hardest not to frown with sadness? Alleviation? Jean had no idea and it scared him.

 

"Wait, no, don't cry. Was it too much? I was just kidding, I haven't loved you for eight years. Fuck, that sounds creepy! I creeped you out, didn't I? I had a whole page full of lines I could've used, why didn't I use them!"

 

He didn't know whether he should give Marco alone time or pat his back, his body decided for him when he gently wiped the tears before they could fall. Marco held onto his hands while he worked, keeping them along his warm cheeks like if his life depended on it.

 

Here he was, this five foot ten inches muscle of a soon-to-be man hunched down with a trembling bottom lip, staring at Jean like if he'd just physically removed dumbbells the size of elephants from his back. Jean felt his heart swell knowing he hadn't said the wrong thing.

 

"I read your lines," Marco's sweet voice confessed, voice slightly shaken, "I like what you said better, sorry."

 

Although it was embarrassing, Jean couldn't be bothered to give a damn about it anymore. His only priority was making his other feel better. He kissed Marco's forehead, tip of his nose, temples and chin, telling him he was forgiven and that everything was alright even though he had no idea what was wrong.

 

When Marco had calmed down, he slipped into the one Jean knew. His posture straightened, eyes puffy but focused now, and that smile he wore by default reappeared. And as if Jean had been the one close to crying, Marco hugged him and smoothed his back.

 

"Sorry I almost lost it."

 

Two hugs in one night and they couldn't have been more similar and different all at the same time.

 

"Does that mean I didn't freak you out?"

 

"No, no," He cooed, "I'm just going through some stuff right now and what you said, it made me snap out of something."

 

"Tell me what happened."

 

Marco sniffled, "I don't want to sour the mood even more. But I will tell you, I promise. Just not tonight--tonight is about you and me only."

 

He could've fought him on that, but would rather much fight whatever turmoil Marco was going through in his head. There were plenty of days ahead where they could wrench their tongues out and tell on another all the things that could hurt them. Jean could rant about his father and Marco could vent about his heartache, Jean could tell him the story of a sorry boy with a crush and Marco could listen and make fun of him if he wanted to.

 

There would be good and bad days, it was guaranteed, and he couldn't wait to go through them with Marco.

 

Jean knew then, standing there with him, that from now on he would do anything to make him happy. He didn't care if other people didn't like his foul mouth, his natural glaring face or his aggressiveness--it only mattered if the people he loved knew there was more to him than a nasty attitude like how he knew there was more to Marco than freckles and positivity.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 

Settled on the his bed with their legs crisscrossed, Jean folded and unfolded one of the many cracker wrappers he'd eaten while Marco continued to nibble on the last Twinkie. They'd abandoned the YouTube videos an hour ago and had opted for meaningless conversation--the best kind you can have with a friend.

 

Now that the air had been mostly cleared, Jean had thought Marco would resume their natural skin ship, but he still gave him his space and so Jean filled Marco's requests of talking about what he did during the time he was gone. It wasn't much, the only interesting things that'd happened to him was the incident with Sasha.

 

He mentioned all the lawn and house work he had to do to impress his mother's friend so the man wouldn't get a bad first impressions. Those were overrated and damaging. He spoke about how their other friends wanted to have a small get together before Christmas rolled around and how everyday kept getting colder and colder and that soon the North Pole would be shifting down to the south.

 

He talked about all the cooking he and his mother had done yesterday--cutting more than just carrots, potatoes and onion. He showed Marco his battle scar like if it were a trophy and Marco's lips had twitched like if he'd wanted to kiss it better. He talked about how today had been all about chores rather than cooking and how he thought about changing his name to Cinderello.

 

Hearing his own voice talk for so long had bored Jean, but no matter how dull his details were, Marco latched onto the sound with the same strength newborns have in their tiny hands and fingers. Jean could tell he'd missed home.

 

He could also tell when it was time for them to give their eyes a break. Three AM had come and gone, the lights had been turned off and still Jean continued to speak for Marco as they laid on their sides facing each other. Jean couldn't believe he was actually fascinated with anything he was saying, but one look at those eyes said yes he was. Not even the night could hide his interest.

 

"First you get your pot, right? But not _that_ kind."

 

"Which kind?"

 

"Your kind."

 

"I don't have any pot. Oh."

 

"Yeah, that kind."

 

"Okay, got it."

 

"Then you get some water, but not a lot. I don't know measurements because fuck math--mom agrees with me on that one, we guesstimate--it's less than half. Very little water, then after that you get your cinnamon sticks--oh yeah, your water has to be boiling at this point. But anyways, you put your cinnamon in and wait for the water to turn brown. That's when the whole house smells like a candle store. It's great."

 

"Mmm, I bet it is."

 

"But that's not the best part. The best part is when you put the chocolate in--it smells even better. You have to be careful though, the bars are hard."

 

"Bars?" Marco asked. He'd been doing so every now and then and it was Jean's only clue to keep going.

 

"They're not candy bars. They're thick like bricks and hard like them, too. I tried biting into one but I almost chipped a tooth."

 

"You would try that. It's a very, very you thing."

 

Jean pouted at him, "Okay. What does that mean? It's the second time you say it today."

 

"It means you're very, very... very cute."

 

" _Cute_? I am not cute, I am _hot_."

 

"I knew you'd say something like that." Marco chuckled, hand scratching away at their shared pillow. "That's why I'm using 'you' as a synonym for cute."

 

"You know you're the only one on this planet to think that?"

 

"I think the planet needs a new set of eyes then."

 

Jean would've rolled his eyes if his compliment didn't shoot him right in the heart so fiercely. He grinned widely and refused to leave Marco out of the sensation, "Seven billion people can't be wrong. I think my boyfriend's the one who needs a pair of glasses instead."

 

His statement, for an amazing reason, made Marco's eyes double in size. Jean saw the shine in them so pretty in the dark, and even if he couldn't, there was no way he would've missed the way Marco's breath caught for a couple seconds or missed the way he wiggled his toes underneath the covers before turning on to his back. Shy Marco. He liked it.

 

"B-Boyfriend. Yeah."

 

He softened at his stutter. It was said nervously, but also like a statement, a truth tied with giddiness that shook off a bit of his drowsiness.

 

"I scared you, huh?"

 

His question was further kidding, but Marco didn't catch that and faced him almost as quickly as he'd left, "No, nothing like that. But let me be honest. I have no idea how to act right now. I feel like--like I'm dreaming."

 

"Want me to pinch you?"

 

"Will it work?"

 

"Probably not. It sounds to me like you're overthinking."

 

"I think so, too."

 

"How about you let yourself do instead of think? It always works for me."

 

"I've always wondered how you did that."

 

Jean snorted, "Well, for one, you can't be scared."

 

"'M not scared."

 

"And two, don't ignore what your feelings want you to do. Sometimes the head needs to shut up for a while to let the heart do what it needs to do."

 

His toes stopped wiggling, "I just realized something."

 

"What?"

 

"You're romantic, Jean."

 

"Marco!" Jean swatted his arm, now free of his enormous jacket, and felt his face rise a few degrees, "I'm a _hopeless_ romantic. There's a difference. One has realistic fantasies while the other--that's me, hi--is way in over their head... I kinda feel bad that you're stuck with someone like me."

 

Marco smiled at him, not feeling the slightest bit bad about the boy he was stuck with, and turned his head off for a while. His hand fumbled around the mattress before it found what it was looking for. Once it did, Marco laced them together, squeezed them and held them comfortably on the bed.

 

"Well, you don't really think I'd let you be hopeless and way in over your head alone, do you?"

 

"Oh boy, you don't know what you're saying."

 

"I think I do."

 

Jean shook his head as best he could, drowning a giggle as he slithered closer to Marco, "Do you want me to tell you how bad I am? I might scare you for real this time."

 

"You can if you want, but you don't have to. I have seen you mad at me, annoyed with me, sick with boogers and with hair that looked more like hay. I have seen you fighting slash making bets with a kid at the Walmart toy aisle. I've seen you drunk and unpredictable and lots more. You won't scare me with something good."

 

He was so sure in his words that Jean had to look away for a solid five seconds, but he couldn't stay away long enough.

 

"When you put it that way, I guess you might be able to handle me after all."

 

"You've got it all wrong," Marco said, untangling their hands to loop an arm around Jean's waist, "I think the real question here is if _you_ can handle _me_."

 

Jean couldn't help himself this time. He had to laugh.

 

"Marco, you're perfect even when you're not. What couldn't I possibly handle from you?"

 

"I have a list."

 

"Try me."

 

Jean gazed up at him as he snuggled deeper into his arms. Whatever his boyfriend was about to say, the look on his face said it was going to be long and lighthearted and only meant for Jean's amusement.

 

"First," Marco started, cocking a brow, "I need one-hundred kisses every morning right when we meet. Second: during school we can only hold hands if you think I'm worthy or if you're feeling extra sad. Third: if you ever get into a fight give me a bird call and I will take care of it for you--another option could be you joining me at the gym, but I'd still rather handle anyone who wants to hurt you. Fourth: If I ever forget to give you my jacket when it's cold, tell Mikasa and Annie to make it so I never forget. Fifth: I need one-hundred kisses every evening before we go our separate ways."

 

"You're gonna kill me," Jean happily moaned, burying his face into Marco's warm chest. He could hear his heart thumping like crazy. Thumping like his.

 

"See? I'm very hard to handle. I bet the whole planet didn't know that. Think you can manage?"

 

Sensing a challenge, Jean leaned back only to have the words taken right out of his mouth. Marco was staring at him with everything Jean was feeling: tenderness, hope, excitement, love, and inexperience. Very slowly, he moved forward and placed his lips gently onto Marco's.

 

"One." He hummed, sight glued to his lips before kissing them again, "Two."

 

And again.

 

"Three."

 

And again.

 

"Four."

 

Marco didn't let him get to one hundred. He held Jean's chin in place, creating an embrace that could equal a thousand kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END
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> Just kidding
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> PS [Here's that first song Marco dedicated to Jean](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3NA70znSAec) :> pls give it a listen, I'm a (super late) big fan of Nicole Reynolds and when I found this song it was like finding Marco's face on a piece of toast
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> pps. I actually have two playlists on this fic bc idk why. One is called Staying In Bed With You and the other is Types Of Light, you can find them on Spotify look for me my name is tihit if ur interested to hear what I listen to when I write! until next time!!!


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